/Vvt— - 


THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 


\ 


THE   GREAT   MODERN 
STORIES    SERIES 


THE  GREAT  MODERN" 

FRENCH      STORIES— Compiled     and 

Edited  with  an   Introduction  by  Wil- 

lard  Huntington  Wright 

THE  GREAT  MODERN 

ENGLISH  STORIES— Compiled  and 
Edited  with  an  Introduction  by  Ed 
ward  J.  O'Brien 

THE  GREAT  MODERN 

AMERICAN  STORIES— Compiled  and 
Edited  with  an  Introduction  by  Wil 
liam  Dean  Howells 


In  Preparation 
THE  GREAT  MODERN 

GERMAN  STORIES 
THE  GREAT  MODERN 

RUSSIAN  STORIES 


THE 

GREAT  MODERN 
AMERICAN  STORIES 

AN  ANTHOLOGY 


COMPILED    AND    EDITED 
WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 

BY 
WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS 


NEW  YORK 

BONI  AND  LIVERIGHT 
1920 


Copyright,   1920,  by 

BONI    &   LlVERIGHT,    INC. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 


A    REMINISCENT    INTRODUO  PAGE 

TION    ........     William  Dean  Howells     vii 

MY  DOUBLE;  AND  How  HE 

UNDID  ME Edward  Everett  Hale        3 

CIRCUMSTANCE Harriet  Prescott  Spof- 

ford 22 

THE    CELEBRATED    JUMPING 

FROG    or    CALAVERAS 

COUNTY Mark  Twain    ...       36 

A  PASSONATE  PILGRIM  .  .  Henry  James  ...  43 
MLLE.  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI  .  T.  B.  Aldrich  .  .  .  110 
A  PRODIGAL  IN  TAHITI  .  .  Charles  Warren  Stod- 

dard 123 

THE    OUTCASTS    OF    POKER 

FLAT Francis  Bret  Harte   .     143 

THE  CHRISTMAS  WRECK  .  .  Frank  Stockton  .  .  155 
THE  MISSION  OF  JANE  .  .  Edith  Wharton  .  .  170 
THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER 

WISBY Sarah  Orne  Jewett    .     190 

THE  REVOLT  OF  MOTHER  .     .     Mary  E.  Wilkins 

Freeman   ....     207 

TOLD  IN  THE  POORHOUSE  .  Alice  Brown  .  .  .  225 
AN  OCCURRENCE  AT  OWL 

CREEK  BRIDGE  ....  Ambrose  Bierce  .  .  237 
THE  RETURN  OF  A  PRIVATE  .  Hamlin  Garland  .  .  248 
STRIKING  AN  AVERAGE  .  .  .  Henry  B.  Fuller  .  .  267 
EFFIE  WHITTLES Y  .  ;  .  .  George  Ade  .  .  .  .  288 
THE  LOST  PHOEBE  ....  Theodore  Dreiser  .  .  295 

A  FAILURE Edith    Wyatt    .     .     .     312 

THE  YELLOW  WALL  PAPER  .    Charlotte   Perkins 

Stetson  Gilman  .    .     320 
y 

59*7 


VI 


THE  LITTLE  ROOM  . 


CONTENTS 


AUNT  SANNA  TERRY  .  .  . 
THE  LOTUS  EATERS  .  .  . 
JEAN-AH  POQUELIN  .  .  . 
BRER  RABBIT,  BRER  Fox,  AND 
THE  TAR  BABY 


Madelene    Yale 
Wynne      .... 
Landon  R.  Dashiell   . 
Virginia   Tracy 
G.  W.  Cable 


PAGE 

338 
352 
361 
390 


Joel  Chandler  Harris     413 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHY    .     .     .    .    419 


A  REMINISCENT  INTRODUCTION 

WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS 

My  reading  has  always  been  so  much  my  living  that  I  can 
not  separate  them,  and  I  should  not  like  to  part  my  remem 
brance  of  My  Double;  and  How  He  Undid  Me  from  my 
sense  of  convalescence  on  the  sick  bed  where  I  first  read  it  in 
Columbus,  Ohio,  and  laughed  myself  back  into  health  over 
it.  I  discovered  in  it  the  dear  and  delightful  author  of  it, 
and  felt  as  if  I  had  invented  Edward  Everett  Hale  long 
before  I  knew  him  by  name,  for  in  those  days  The  Atlantic 
Monthly,  where  I  first  read  it,  never  gave  the  names  of  its 
contributors,  such  being  its  sacred  Blackwood  Magazine 
tradition.  My  first  reading  of  the  story  was  the  first  of 
many  readings  of  it  and  laughings  over  it  with  all  the  friends 
who  then  inhabited  Columbus  to  the  sum  of  the  little  city's 
population  of  20,000.  These  were  all  people  of  my  own  age, 
say  of  twenty  or  twenty-one,  and  my  partners,  both  sexes, 
in  the  awful  joy  of  Miss  Prescott's  (not  yet  Mrs.  Spofford's) 
tremendous  story  of  Circumstancef  still  unsurpassed  of  its 
kind.  We  thrilled  over  it  severally  and  collectively  (the 
whole  20,000  of  us),  and  are  still  ready  to  swear  it  unsur 
passed,  though  we  are  now  over  seventy  or  eighty  years  old 
and  200,000  in  number. 

It  wanted  at  least  two  generations  to  freeze  our  young  blood 
with  Mrs.  Perkins  Oilman's  story  of  The  Yellow  Wall  Paper, 
which  Horace  Scudder  (then  of  The  Atlantic)  said  in  re 
fusing  it  that  it  was  so  terribly  good  that  it  ought  never  to  be 
printed.  But  terrible  and  too  wholly  dire  as  it  was,  I  could 
not  rest  until  I  had  corrupted  the  editor  of  The  New  England 
Magazine  into  publishing  it.  Now  that  I  have  got  it  into 
my  collection  here,  I  shiver  over  it  as  much  as  I  did  when  I 
first  read  it  in  manuscript,  though  I  agree  with  the  editor  of 
The  Atlantic  of  the  time  that  it  was  too  terribly  good  to  be 
printed. 

vii 


yiii  INTRODUCTION 

In  a  far  zigzag  of  time  and  kind  from  this  awful  study  of 
incipient  madness  is  A  Passionate  Pilgrim,  which  I  had  the 
privilege  of  accepting  from  Henry  James  in  the  earliest  years 
of  my  long  Atlantic  editorship.  I  had  the  privilege  of  ac 
cepting  many  more  famous  things  of  his,  but  ' 'young"  as  this 
story  is  in  many  ways,  it  is  of  a  life,  a  feeling,  a  color,  and 
above  all  a  prompt  distinctness,  altogether  absent  from  his 
later,  and,  if  one  will,  more  masterly  work.  In  fact  it  is  of 
a  masterliness  which  its  maturer  author  might  deny  but  would 
not  forbid,  his  young  editor  affirming.  The  American  char 
acter  studied  in  it  is  American  to  the  last  degree,  and  as 
sharply  distinct  from  the  English,  as  the  fervidest  Ameri 
can  could  wish,  and  it  is  of  the  greater  interest  because  the 
young  author's  Americanism  eventuated,  after  many  long 
years  of  English  sojourn,  in  his  renouncing  his  American 
citizenship  and  becoming  an  English  subject.  Every  reader 
will  have  his,  or  her,  feeling  as  to  the  biographical  fact,  but 
I  think  no  one  can  deny  the  genuine  passion  of  this  most 
passionate  pilgrim,  or  the  pathos  of  his  experience.  It  is  an 
intense  piece  of  American  fiction,  such  as  the  author  has 
never  since  surpassed. 

The  three  great  artists,  working  always  in  simple  and 
native  stuff,  whom  I  have  almost  inevitably  grouped  to 
gether  in  the  order  of  my  acquaintance  with  their  stories,  are 
collectively,  if  not  severally,  without  equal  among  their  con 
temporaries  in  their  order  of  fiction.  I  like  the  beautiful 
art,  the  gentle  nature-love  and  the  delicate  humor  of  Sarah 
Orne  Jewett  because  I  knew  it  first  as  the  very  junior  editor 
whom  it  first  came  to  in  settled  form,  but  I  do  not  know  that 
I  value  it  more  than  the  stories  of  Mrs.  Wilkins  Freeman  or 
the  stories  of  Miss  Alice  Brown,  which  I  knew  with  the  rest 
of  the  public  when  they  began  to  appear  in  response  to  other 
editorial  welcome.  I  think  The  Revolt  of  Mother  had  the 
widest  and  warmest  welcome  from  the  whole  English-read 
ing  world;  Miss  Brown's  story  here  is  fairly  suggestive  of  her 
far-reaching  study  of  New  England  life;  and  very  possibly 
it  is  because  of  my  earlier  liking  for  Sarah  Orne  Jewett's 
story  that  I  like  it  most.  She  is  less  dramatic  in  the  piece 
chosen  than  the  others;  the  story  is  scarcely  more  than  a 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

placid  and  whimsical  study  of  scene  and  character;  it  was 
hard  to  find  any  story  of  hers  that  was  more  than  a  study, 
but  how  preciously  richer  than  a  story  this  study  is ! 

I  had  a  like  difficulty  in  getting  a  story  from  Charles 
Warren  Stoddard's  South  Sea  Idyls,  for  when  I  came  to  re 
new  my  friendship  with  them,  I  found  A  Prodigal  in  Tahiti 
the  only  one  among  those  delicious  sketches  which  was  like  a 
story,  and  this  was  scarcely  like  a  story  at  all.  Half  my 
life  it  had  been  a  delight  to  me,  and  I  was  not  going  to 
forego  it  because  it  was  a  bit  of  autobiography  and  not  a 
dramatic  invention.  My  situation  would  have  been  the  joy 
of  Stoddard  himself,  and  if  there  are  smiles  in  heaven,  where 
he  has  been  these  half  dozen  years,  he  must  be  looking  down 
with  a  characteristic  pleasure  in  the  dilemma  of  the  earliest 
editor  of  a  study  which  refused  to  be  quite  a  story.  He  must 
be  generously  sharing  with  that  editor  the  delight  of  the 
"detonating  boot"  which  he  wore  in  the  dusty  walks  to  the 
joy  of  the  gentle  Tahitian  crowds  following  him  in  his  famine 
around  their  island  from  breakfastless  morn  till  supperless 
eve. 

I  think  Aldrich  came  after  Stoddard's  sketch  with  his 
unique  invention  of  Marjorie  Daw  and  I  am  sure  of  the  suc 
cession  of  Mademoiselle  Zabriski  following  that,  and  which 
I  reproduce  here,  not  as  the  better  but  the  best  his  publishers 
can  allow  his  latest  editor  who  was  his  earliest.  Mademoiselle 
Zabriski  is  not  only  the  next  cleverest  thing  of  Aldrich's 
after  Marjorie  Daw,  but  is  notable  for  being  one  of  those 
feats  of  fact  in  which  nature  sometimes  imitates  art,  as  I 
personally  learned  from  an  experience  behind  the  scenes  of 
a  country  circus  where  I  was  once  presented  to  an  amiable 
clown  who  said  he  liked  my  books,  and  then  presented  me  to 
his  son  newly  alighted  from  the  trapeze.  I  viewed  the  youth 
with  the  surprise  of  a  spectator  who  had  just  seen  him  in 
flying  skirts  and  now  beheld  him  in  succinct  tights.  "But — 
but,"  I  faltered,  and  "Oh,  yes,"  his  father  interjected,  "You 
thought  he  was  a  girl.  Well,  the  public  likes  them  better  as 
girls,"  and  I  was  aware  of  standing  in  the  presence  of  one 
who  might  well  have  been  Mademoiselle  Zabriski,  but  had 
not  quite  the  artistic  touch  of  Aldrich  in  his  realization.  Some 


*  INTRODUCTION 

day  I  hope  to  tell  the  pleasant  tale  of  my  relation  witH 
Aldrich  as  a  most  favored  and  desired  contributor  with  the 
young  under-editor,  and  all  our  joyous  lunching  and  joking 
together  in  the  rivalry  of  our  new-married  housekeeping; 
but  this  is  not  yet  the  time  or  place.  I  can  only  affirm  it 
one  of  the  happiest  things  I  remember. 

With  Miss  Edith  Wyatt's  story  I  had  the  same  sort  of 
difficulty  in  finding  anything  definitely  dramatic  among  her 
studies  of  Chicago  life,  as  I  had  in  finding  a  story  among 
Stoddard's  South  Sea  Idyls.  She  called  them  Every  One 
His  Own  Way,  perhaps  because  she  could  not  think  of  a 
more  distinctive  name  for  them.  But  they  were  all  exquisite 
things,  most  artistic  and  most  realistic  things,  delicate  por 
traits  of  life  worthy  of  equal  place  with  the  stories  and 
,  studies  of  those  unrivalled  sisters  three,  Miss  Jewett,  and 
Mrs.  Wilkins  Freeman  and  Miss  Alice  Brown  whom  I  have 
put  here  in  their  rare  succession. 

If  I  am  required  to  say  why  I  have  chosen  from  Mrs. 
Edith  Wharton's  many  minor  masterpieces  The  Mission  of 
Jane,  I  should  be  defied  in  vain  unless  I  were  suffered 
to  say  that  it  was  the  instant  delight  of  the  whole  family  who 
read  it  together  and  cherished  it  thereafter  as  one  of  the 
most  precious  jewels  of  remembrance.  Even  this  would  ap 
pear  no  sufficient  reason  save  to  such  elect  as  could  rejoice 
in  the  portrayal  of  the  perfect  and  entire  dullness  of  Jane 
and  her  equally  dull  admirer.  It  is  truly  an  unsurpassed 
piece  of  art,  worthy  of  like  rank  with  the  best  things  in  our 
wonder-book  of  good  things  here,  though  there  is  nothing 
better  here  than  the  episode  of  Aunt  Sanna  Terry,  which  a 
beneficent  chance  vouchsafed  to  one  of  us  in  the  very  un 
expected  pages  of  The  Southern  Workman  where  the  humor 
of  Miss  Dashiell  had  lavished  it  on  that  organ  of  Hampton 
Institute.  There  is,  to  my  thinking,  no  superior  to  it  in  the 
whole  range  of  colored  character,  as  the  mastery  of  the  South 
which  knows  it  best  has  portrayed  it  in  Uncle  Remus,  and 
Mark  Twain  and  Mr.  Cable's  very  varied  and  exquisitely 
rendered  shades  and  differences  of  the  race  unsurpassedly 
known  to  him. 

Not  yet  to  turn  aside  to  these  greater  names,  I  must  ask 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

the  reader  to  share  my  pleasure  in  Miss  Virginia  Tracy's 
delightful  tale  of  The  Lotus  Eaters  where  they  sit  famish 
ing  at  the  lunch  table  in  the  absence  of  the  retarded  alimony 
of  the  hostess.  There  is  never  so  good  talk  as  that  of  players 
off  the  stage,  however  they  fail  on  it,  and  the  climax  of  the 
hostess's  announcement  to  the  lovers  among  the  clothes-lines 
on  the  roof  that  "the  alimony  has  come"  is  something  un 
rivalled  in  the  strokes  of  tragi-comedy  or  comi-tragedy. 

I  could  not  read  Mr.  Cable's  most  touching  story  of  Jean- 
ah  Poquelin  without  hearing  the  voice  of  Mark  Twain  in 
reading  its  most  dramatic  phrases  with  his  tragic  pleasure 
in  the  old  Negro-trader's  concealment  of  his  leper-brother  in 
defiance  of  the  authorities  proposing  to  run  a  street  through 
his  property,  in  the  interest  of  public  improvement.  His 
glorious  defiance  of  "Strit  shall  not  pass!"  sounds  in  my 
ears  yet,  as  Clemens  pronounced  it;  and  in  its  other  kind  I 
hear  him  read  The  Tar  Baby  as  he  heard  the  colored  fablers 
of  his  Missouri  childhood  tell  it.  His  own  earliest  and  last- 
ingest  masterpiece,  The  Jumping  Frog,  I  never  heard  him 
read  among  the  other  masterpieces  of  his  which  he  delighted 
to  give  with  that  unequalled  dramatic  authority  of  his,  but 
many  a  time  I  heard  him  tell  the  story  of  its  publication  by 
his  fellow  Californian  who  first  brought  it  out  in  New  York 
when  they  had  both  ceased  from  the  Pacific  Slope  and  trans 
ferred  themselves  to  these  Atlantic  shores.  It  was  supposed 
to  have  enriched  the  publishers  in  the  same  measure  that  it 
impoverished  the  author,  but  this  may  have  been  one  of  those 
imaginary  experiences  in  which  his  varied  life  abounded. 
It  did  not  affect  the  unequalled  quality  of  the  great  story 
itself  which  remains  one  of  the  most  stupendous  of  his  in 
ventions.  It  won  that  English  renown  which  others  of  his 
great  things  enjoyed  before  their  home-acceptance,  and  it 
lost  nothing  in  hearing  "Tom  Brown"  of  Rugby  speaking  of 
it  at  Lowell's  table  as  The  Leapin'  Frog  instead  of  The 
Jumping  Frog,  though  the  loving  misnomer  hurt  the  Ameri 
can  ear. 

Clemens  was  by  all  odds  the  best  reader  I  ever  heard, 
whether  he  read  his  own  things  or  others'  things,  and  he 
sang  with  as  great  feeling  the  Negro  spirituals  of  the  Jubilee 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

Singers  when  they  first  made  their  way  North.  He  told  the 
stories  of  Uncle  Remus  in  his  native  speech.  How  Joel 
Chandler  Harris  might  have  interpreted  them  I  cannot 
venture  to  say.  From  an  almost  inarticulate  meeting  with 
him  at  Boston  I  have  the  impression  of  a  transcendent  bash- 
fulness  in  which  we  made  no  way  with  him  in  any  hospitable 
endeavor  and  he  left  us  with  the  remembrance  of  nothing 
more  distinctive  than  a  meeting  at  his  publisher's,  who  was 
also  mine;  but  I  could  imagine  all  delightful  things  in  him 
if  once  I  could  get  beyond  that  insuperable  diffidence  of  his. 

The  Son  of  the  Middle  Border  is  represented  here  by  an 
early  favorite  of  mine  in  The  Return  of  the  Private  which 
remembers  all  the  simple  pathos  of  the  home-coming  of  those 
Civil  War  veterans  when  they  returned  to  their  corn-fields 
from  their  battle-fields.  Hamlin  Garland  has  done  many 
other  beautiful  and  manly  things,  but  no  homely  things  more 
beautiful  and  manly  or  more  characteristic  of  his  art;  and 
I  think  Mr.  Ambrose  Bierce  has  done  nothing  more  imagina 
tive  than  An  Occurence  at  Owl  Creek  Bridge,  where  he  car 
ries  further  the  sort  of  post-mortem  consciousness  which 
Tolstoy  and  Turgenev  were  the  first  to  imagine.  It  is  very 
excellent  work,  and  is  all  the  more  interesting  in  the  ex 
pression  of  Confederate  feeling,  which  is  less  known  to  fic 
tion  than  Union  feeling  in  the  war  dear  alike  to  North  and 
South. 

The  plain  poetry,  tending  to  the  plain  wierdness  of  Mr. 
Theodore  Dreiser's  story  of  The  Lost  Phccbe  is  of  a  quality 
that  I  find  in  almost  nothing  else  of  anyone  else.  The  tender 
ness  of  the  plainest  of  Lincoln's  plain  people  whom  God 
seemed  to  him  to  have  made  mainly  in  our  nearer  Middle 
West  is  expressed  incomparably  in  the  delusion  of  the  old 
widower  who  believes  that  his  wife  returns  to  him  as  the 
phantom  he  can  make  no  other  see.  The  local  conditioning 
is  studied  with  the  same  fidelity  that  keeps  the  older  New 
England  alive  in  the  art  of  those  Sisters  Three  whom  I 
have  grouped  together  and  am  never  tired  of  praising.  There 
is  a  "touch  of  nature  beyond  the  reach  of  art"  in  the  crazy 
custom  of  the  old  wanderer  who  throws  his  stick  before  him 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

in  his  search  for  his  "lost  Phoebe' '  sure  that  he  will  find 
her  beside  it  when  he  comes  up  to  it. 

One  does  not  escape  that  choice  of  The  Outcasts  of  Poker 
Flat  which  so  many  have  made  before  me  as  more  representa 
tive  of  Bret  Harte's  most  characteristic  work.  Why  we  do 
not  choose  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,  the  thing  that  first 
won  him  world-wide  recognition,  or  some  other  thing,  like 
Tennessee's  Partner,  I  cannot  say;  I  only  know  that  The 
Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat  offers  itself  at  the  hands  of  general 
preference.  Perhaps  it  has  been  chosen  because  of  the 
characterization  of  the  gentleman-gambler  whom  the  keen 
est  critic  among  Harte's  contemporary  Calif ornians  regarded 
as  his  strongest  suit.  Certainly  he  has  done  nothing  better 
in  his  best  sort  than  "Mr.  John  Oakhurst,  Gambler." 

With  the  like  perversity  of  editors,  I  have  chosen  one  of  the 
shipwrecks  dear  to  Frank  Stockton's  whimsical  humor,  and 
not  the  unique  triumph  which  all  the  rest  of  the  world  likes 
best  in  The  Lady  and  the  Tiger.  But  I  shall  always  believe 
that  a  large  minority  of  his  lovers  will  be  with  me  in  my 
choice  of  The  Christmas  Wreck,  though  to  be  sure  there  is 
The  Wreck  of  the  Thomas  Hike.  His  fine  spirit  is  subtly 
with  us  in  the  far  range  of  its  numberless  caprices  and  in 
ventions,  though  eternity  seems  the  richer  and  time  the  poorer 
in  his  going  from  us.  If  his  fame  seems  in  a  momentary 
abeyance  it  is  because  this  sort  of  eclipse  must  come  to  all. 
We  must  remember  that  it  is  the  shadow  of  our  little  moon 
that  now  and  again  blots  the  sun,  though  I  cannot  specify 
personally  any  renown  which  has  come  between  us  and  Stock 
ton's  beloved  name. 

In  this  collection  there  is  nothing  humaner  or  more  humane 
than  Mr.  George  Ade's  quite  perfect  study  of  real  life,  Effie 
Whittlesy.  It  is  a  contribution  to  American  fiction  of  a 
value  far  beyond  most  American  novels;  and  the  American 
small  town  which  has  often  shrunken  into  the  American  City 
lives  again  here  in  its  characteristic  personality.  It  is  a  thing 
which  I  have  read  unnumbered  times  to  myself  and  to  those 
I  love  best,  but  I  am  still  in  doubt  whether  the  admirable 
Effie  or  the  excellent  Ed  Wallace  is  more  my  friend.  I 
have  so  much  affection  for  them  both  that  I  have  a  sincere 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

regard  for  Mrs.  Wallace,  though  she  somewhat  tardily  wins 
it.  The  story  is  the  best  in  the  volume  In  Babel,  where 
the  Chicago-West,  which  so  incomparably  burlesques  itself 
in  the  famous  Fables,  studies  its  likeness  in  the  art  of  a 
master,  as  it  does  in  Mr.  Henry  B.  Fuller's  Striking  an 
Average.  This  is  not  only  good  Chicago,  but  is  good  native 
American — not  too  fine  in  the  youth  intending  municipal 
politics  in  his  own  interest — and  is  good  Irish-American  in 
the  clever,  handsome  Irish  girl  who  means  to  help  him  up 
with  the  help  of  her  efficient  political  father,  already  at  the 
top  in  municipal  politics.  It  is  all  very  lightly  and  per 
suasively  done,  not  only  in  the  youth's  society  mother,  but 
in  the  girl's  mother  and  their  unforced  friendliness.  The 
girl's  superiority  to  the  youth  is  never  rubbed  into  the  reader, 
who  is  not  made  to  do  more  than  share  the  young  Ameri 
can's  own  sense  of  it. 

I  think  that  probably  more  interesting  people,  especially 
interesting  women,  have  a  greater  devotion  for  Mrs.  Wynne's 
romance  of  The  Little  Room  than  for  any  like  story — if 
there  is  any  other  like  story.  It  first  appeared  in  Harper's 
Magazine  some  thirty  years  ago,  and  it  has  never  since  dis 
appeared,  though  evanescence  is  the  prime  motive  of  it.  I 
myself  was  one  of  the  many  editors  of  the  collections  which 
contain  it;  and  I  put  it  in  one  of  my  first  volumes  of  those 
Harper  Novelettes  which  it  was  another's  happy  thought 
to  suggest  the  republication  of  in  kindred  groups.  It  re 
mains  forever  a  question  whether  The  Little  Room  was  a 
habitable  chamber,  or  a  mere  closet  without  valuable  char 
acter;  the  sequel  to  it  which  the  author  wrote  has  not  seemed 
to  explain  or  enhance  its  interest  in  this  editor's  view.  But 
no  such  difference  of  opinion  can  affect  its  weird  charm;  it 
must  remain  forever  a  triumph  of  the  imagination,  an  unend 
ing  tease  of  the  curiosity,  though  this  is  a  quite  inadequate 
expression  of  its  peculiar  charm.  It  may  or  may  not  add  to 
its  appeal  that  there  is  an  architectural  plagiarism  of  its 
motive  in  the  beautiful  house  which  Henry  VIII  built  for 
Anne  Boleyn  at  Southampton.  From  the  street  you  see  a 
window  which  opens  to  no  room  within.  If  you  doubt  of 
Mrs.  Wynne's  Little  Room  yon  can  go  there  and  verify  it. 


PUBLISHER'S  NOTE 

References  for  the  Study  of  the  Short  Story 

Those  who  wish  to  study  the  short  story  beyond  the 
material  afforded  in  the  present  volume  will  find  the  follow- 
^eferences  helpful: 

For  American  literature  in  general  three  of  the  best 
short  accounts  are:  A  History  of  American  Literature,  by 
Fred  Lewis  Pattee  (Silver,  Burdett  &  Co.,  1896) ;  A  History 
of  American  Literature,  by  William  Peterfield  Trent  (D. 
Appleton  &  Co.,  1903);  and  American  Literature,  by  Al- 
phonso  G.  Newcomer  (Scott,  Foresman  &  Co.,  1901).  For 
a  more  extended  treatment  the  three-volume  Cambridge 
History  of  American  Literature  (G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons, 
1917-1918-1920)  is  the  most  thorough  work.  This  is  edited 
by  William  P.  Trent,  John  Erskine,  Stuart  P.  Sherman  and 
Carl  Van  Doren,  and  the  chapters  are  written  by  specialists, 
but  in  a  way  to  interest  the  general  reader.  Particular 
chapters  are  referred  to  farther  on.  For  an  extended  treat 
ment  of  one  period  of  American  literature  Fred  Lewis  Pattee's 
A  History  of  American  Literature  Since  1870  (The  Century 
Co.,  1915)  is  invaluable.  A  stimulating  little  work  along 
critical  lines  is  The  Spirit  of  American  Literature,  by  John 
Albert  Macy  (Boni  &  Liveright,  1913:  The  Modem 
Library). 

For  a  study  of  the  short  story  in  general  an  excellent  ap 
proach  is  through  the  collection,  edited  by  Alexander  Jessup 
and  Henry  Seidel  Canby,  The  Book  of  the  Short  Story  (D. 
Appleton  &  Co.,  1903),  which  shows  the  evolution  of  the 
short  story  from  about  2500  B.  C.  through  1890  by  its 
eighteen  representative  stories  from  various  literatures.  An 
introduction  of  twenty-eight  pages  traces  the  development  of 


xvi  PUBLISHER'S  NOTE 

the  short  story  under  the  headings,  The  Short  Story  and  the 
Tales,  The  Short  Story  and  the  Novel,  and  The  Rise  of  the 
Short  Story.  This  was  the  pioneer  collection  of  short 
stories  from  various  literatures,  to  show  the  development  of 
the  form.  The  List  of  Representative  Tales  and  Short. 
Stories  included  directs  the  student  to  further  reading.  Four 
years  after  the  appearance  of  the  book  edited  by  Jessup  and 
Canby,  Brander  Matthews  put  out  a  collection  along  similar 
lines,  The  Short  Story  (American  Book  Co.,  1907). 

The  most  comprehensive  collection  of  purely  American 
short  stories  is  The  American  Short  Story:  Examples  Show 
ing  its  Development  (Allyn  &  Bacon:  Boston,  1920),  which 
contains  seventy-three  stories  ranging  in  date  from  1788  to 
1920.  This  is  the  largest  collection  of  short  stories  in  one 
volume  yet  made.  As  a  guide  to  more  extended  reading  there 
is  included  a  list  of  over  thirty-five  hundred  American 
short  stories  and  short  story  collections.  A  much  smaller 
undertaking  is  American  Short  Stories,  edited  by  Charles 
Sears  Baldwin  (Longmans,  Green  &  Co.,  1904),  which  con 
tains  fifteen  stories  ranging  in  date  from  1819  to  1897.  An 
interesting  introduction  of  thirty-five  pages  is  marred  by 
many  errors,  including  wrong  dates  and  misstatements  of 
fact.  Apart  from  its  many  mistakes  the  book  is  good  as  far 
as  it  goes.  A  collection  of  American  short  stories  in  a 
special  field  is  The  Best  American  Humorous  Short  Stories 
(Boni  &  Liveright,  1920),  edited  by  Alexander  Jessup. 
The  volume  contains  eighteen  stories  ranging  in  date  from 
1839  to  1914,  and  an  interesting  introduction  of  twenty- 
six  pages.  Bret  Harte,  Stockton,  Bunner,  and  O.  Henry 
are  among  the  authors  represented.  A  series  of  ten  small 
volumes,  Stories  by  American  Authors,  edited  anonymously 
(Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  1884-88)  contains  fifty-eight 
stories.  The  selection  in  no  way  represents  American 
literature  adequately,  since  neither  Irving,  Poe,  Hawthorne 
nor  Bret  Harte  are  included,  nor  does  it  contain  any  stories 
written  after  1885. 

Those  who  wish  to  read  some  of  the  best  short  stories  in 
French  literature  will  find  forty-four  of  them  in  the  series 
of  six  small  volumes,  Little  French  Masterpieces,  edited  by 


PUBLISHER'S  NOTE  xvii 

Alexander  Jessup  (G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  1903).  The 
authors  represented  are  Merimee,  Flaubert,  Gautier,  Daudet, 
Maupassant  and  Balzac.  Each  volume  has  an  introduction 
by  a  distinguished  critic;  especially  valuable  for  the  stu- 
lient  of  the  short  story  are  the  Essays  on  Maupassant,  by 
Arthur  Symons;  and  Balzac,  by  Ferdinand  Brumetiere. 
Ti  the  latter  a  differentiation  is  made  for  the  first  time 
between  the  French  forms  of  fiction,  the  nouvelle,  the  conte 
and  the  roman.  The  translation  is  by  George  Burnham 
Ives.  A  remarkably  comprehensive  and  incisively  critical 
work  is  A  Century  of  French  Fiction,  by  Benjamin  W.  Wells 
(Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.,  1898).  The  three  essays  on  the  various 
aspects  of  Balzac,  and  those  on  Merimee,  Gautier,  Flaubert, 
Daudet,  and  Maupassant  will  be  found  the  most  interesting 
of  its  seventeen  chapters  to  the  student  of  the  short  story. 
A  single-volume  collection  of  twenty-two  stories  is  The 
Great  Modern  French  Stories:  A  Chronological  Anthology, 
edited  by  Willard  Huntington  Wright  (Boni  &  Liveright, 
1917).  It  contains  a  valuable  introduction  of  forty-two 
pages. 

Among  the  purely  critical  volumes  dealing  with  the  short 
story,  in  addition  to  the  collections  containing  critical 
matter  mentioned  above,  is  A  Study  of  the  Short  Story,  by 
Henry  Seidel  Canby  (Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  1913).  This 
volume  contains  eleven  short  stories,  all  from  English  and 
American  literature,  but  the  critical  portion  of  the  book  so 
far  outweighs  the  collection  in  importance  that  it  is  men 
tioned  here  rather  than  with  the  collections.  The  introduc 
tion  of  seventy-eight  pages  is  divided  into  sixteen  chapters. 
Another  excellent  volume  dealing  critically  with  the  sub 
ject  is  A  Handbook  of  Story  Writing  (Dodd,  Mead  &  Co., 
1917).  This  treats  the  short  story  from  a  technical  stand 
point.  A  somewhat  more  advanced  treatment  of  the 
subject  is  The  Art  and  the  Business  of  Story  Writing,  by 
Walter  B.  Pitkin  (The  Macmillan  Co.,  1912).  The 
Philosophy  of  the  Short  Story,  by  Brander  Matthews 
(Longmans,  Green  &  Co.,  1901;  republished  with  revision 
from  The  Saturday  Review,  1884)  was  the  first  American 
treatment  of  the  short  story  as  a  separate  form  of  fiction. 


xviii  PUBLISHER'S  NOTE 

It  said  explicitly  what  Poe  had  hinted  at  in  his  review  of 
Hawthorne's  Twice-Told  Tales  in  1842  and  in  his  essay 
on  the  Philosophy  of  Composition  (1846).  The  chapter  on 
The  Short  Story  (republished  from  The  Atlantic  Monthly, 
August,  1902)  in  Bliss  Perry's,  A  Study  of  Prose  Fiction 
(Houghton,  Mifflin  Co.,  1902)  is  interesting,  as  is  Clayton 
Hamilton's  Structure  of  the  Short  Story,  in  his  book,  A 
Manual  of  the  Art  of  Fiction  (Doubleday,  Page  &  Co., 
1908).  William  Dean  Howells'  chapter  on  Some  Anomalies 
of  the  Short  Story  (reprinted  from  The  North  American 
Review,  October,  1901)  in  his  Literature  and  Life  (Harper 
&  Bros.,  1902)  is  decidedly  stimulating. 

For  the  American  short  story  the  chapters  in  The  Cam 
bridge  History  of  American  Literature,  Volume  II  (G.  P. 
Putnam's  Sons,  1918)  on  Hawthorne,  by  John  Erskine;  Poe, 
by  Killis  Campbell;  Magazines,  Annuals  and  Gift-Books, 
1783-1850,  by  William  B.  Cairns;  and  The  Short  Story,  by 
Fred  Lewis  Pattee,  are  all  valuable.  The  chapter  on  The 
Triumph  of  the  Short  Story  in  Patte's  History  of  American 
Literature  Since  1870  (The  Century  Co.,  1915)  is  a  com 
prehensive  survey  from  Bret  Harte  almost  down  to  date. 
John  Erskine's  Leading  American  Novelists  (Henry  Holt 
&  Co.,  1910)  is  especially  interesting  to  the  student  of  the 
short  story  for  its  chapters  on  Hawthorne  and  Bret  Harte. 
William  Crary  BrownelPs  American  Prose  Masters  (Charles 
Scribner's  Sons,  1909)  is  a  notable  work  of  criticism  of  six 
great  American  authors.  The  chapters  on  Hawthorne,  Poe 
and  Henry  James  will  attract  the  short-story  investigator. 
Then  there  is  Hawthorne  and  the  Short  Story,  by  Walter 
Morris  Harte  (University  of  California:  Berkeley,  1900), 
the  introduction  by  Alexander  Jessup  to  his  collection,  The 
American  Short  Story  (Allyn  &  Bacon,  1920),  already  men 
tioned,  and  Charles  Sears  Baldwin's  introduction  to  his 
American  Short  Stories  (Longmans,  Green  &  Co.,  1904), 
also  referred  to  above.  The  chapters  in  Henry  Siedel 
Canby's  A  Study  of  the  Short  Story  (Henry  Holt  &  Co., 
1913)  entitled  Poe,  and  the  Further  Development  of  the 
Romantic  Short  Story,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  America  in 
the  Midcentury,  Bret  Hartef  The  Local  Colorists,  and  The 


PUBLISHER'S  NOTE  xii 

Deepening  of  the  Short  Story:  Henry  James,  will  all  be 
found  extremely  interesting,  as  will  this  writer's  chapters 
on  Edgar  Allen  Poe,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  The  Midcentury 
in  America  and  The  Americans  from  Bret  Harte  to  the 
Nineties,  in  his  larger  book,  The  Short  Story  in  English 
(Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  1909). 

The  most  comprehensive  treatment  of  the  short  story  in 
any  one  literature  is  Henry  Seidel  Canby's  The  Short 
Story  in  English  (Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  1909).  Until  recently 
there  has  been  no  comprehensive  or  entirely  satisfactory 
collection  showing  the  development  of  the  English  short 
story.  The  Great  Modern  English  Stories,  compiled  and 
edited,  with  an  introduction  by  Edward  J.  O'Brien  (Boni 
&  Liveright,  1919)  is  an  interesting  and  valuable  collec 
tion  containing  twenty-eight  stories  all  of  which  were  written 
within  the  last  forty  years.  Mr.  O'Brien  stresses  the  point 
that  the  short  story  is  not  a  characteristic  English  form.  In 
this  same  Great  Modern  Short  Story  Series  will  appear  in 
1920,  The  Great  Modern  German  Stories,  compiled  and 
edited  with  an  introduction  by  Ludwig  Lewisohn,  The  Great 
Modern  Scandinavian  Stories,  compiled  and  edited  with  an 
introduction  by  Edwin  Bjorkman,  and  The  Great  Modern 
Italian  Stories,  compiled  and  edited  with  an  introduction 
by  Arturo  Giovannitti. 

The  two  volumes  already  mentioned  by  Blance  Colton 
Williams  and  Walter  B.  Pitkin,  although  chiefly  technical 
treatments  of  the  subject,  also  go  into  what  may  be  termed 
the  "practical"  side  to  a  certain  extent.  Other  volumes  deal 
ing  with  this,  including  such  aspects  as  popularity,  market 
ing,  etc.,  are  J.  Berg  Esenwein's  Writing  the  Short  Story 
(Hinds,  Noble  &  Eldredge,  1909),  The  Contemporary  Short 
Story,  by  Harry  T.  Baker  (D.  C.  Heath  &  Co.,  1916),  and 
Where  and  How  to  Sell  MSS;  a  Descriptive  Directory  for 
Writers,  edited  by  William  B.  McFourtie  (Home  Corres 
pondence  School:  Springfield,  Mass.,  1919). 

Edward  J.  O'Brien's  annual  volumes,  of  which  the  latest 
at  this  writing  is  The  Best  Short  Stories  of  1919  (Small, 
Maynard  &  Co.),  keep  the  student  of  the  subject  up-to-date. 
Besides  reprinting  a  selection  of  the  best  stories  by  American 


xx  PUBLISHER'S  NOTE 

authors  that  have  appeared  in  American  magazines  each 
year,  these  volumes  contain  a  list  of  a  larger  number  of  the 
best  short  stories,  a  list  of  the  best  story  collections  of  the 
year,  and  other  valuable  matter. 

CHARLES  STEWART  RIVERS. 


MY  DOUBLE ;  AND  HOW  HE  UNDID 
ME* 

BY  EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE 

IT  is  not  often  that  I  trouble  the  readers  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly.  I  should  not  trouble  them  now,  but  for  the 
importunities  of  my  wife,  who  "feels  to  insist"  that  a 
duty  to  society  is  unfulfilled,  till  I  have  told  why  I  had  to 
have  a  double,  and  how  he  undid  me.  She  is  sure,  she  says,  that 
intelligent  persons  cannot  understand  that  pressure  upon  pub 
lic  servants  which  alone'  drives  any  man  into  the  employment 
of  a  double.  And  while  I  fear  she  thinks,  at  the  bottom  of 
her  heart,  that  my  fortunes  will  never  be  remade,  she  has  a 
faint  hope,  that,  as  another  Rasselas,  I  may  teach  a  lesson 
to  future  publics,  from  which  they  may  profit,  though  we  die. 
Owing  to  the  behavior  of  my  double,  or,  if  you  please,  to  that 
public  pressure  which  compelled  me  to  employ  him,  I  have 
plenty  of  leisure  to  write  this  communication. 

I  am,  or  rather  was,  a  minister  of  the  Sandemanian  con 
nection.  I  was  settled  in  the  active,  wide-awake  town  of 
Naguadavick,  on  one  of  the  finest  water-powers  in  Maine. 
We  used  to  call  it  a  Western  town  in  the  heart  of  civilization 
of  New  England.  A  charming  place  it  was  and  is.  A 
spirited,  brave  young  parish  had  I;  and  it  seemed  as  if  we 
might  have  all  "the  joy  of  eventful  living"  to  our  hearts' 
content. 

Alas !  how  little  we  knew  on  the  day  of  my  ordination,  and 
in  those  halcyon  moments  of  our  first  housekeeping!  To  be 
the  confidential  friend  in  a  hundred  families  in  the  town — 
cutting  the  social  trifle,  as  my  friend  Haliburton  says,  "from 
the  top  of  the  whipped-syllabub  to  the  bottom  of  the  sponge- 

*  Permission  of  Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  and  Ellen  Day  Hale. 

3 


4     THE  GREAT  MODERN^  AMERICAN  STORIES 

cake,  which  is  the  foundation";  to  keep  abreast  of  the 
thought  of  the  age  in  one's  study,  and  to  do  one's  best  on 
Sunday  to  interweave  that  thought  with  the  active  life  of  an 
active  town,  and  to  inspirit  both  and  make  both  infinite  by 
glimpses  of  the  Eternal  Glory,  seemed  such  an  exquisite  fore- 
look  into  one's  life!  Enough  to  do,  and  all  so  real  and  so 
grand!  If  this  vision  could  only  have  lasted! 

The  truth  is,  that  this  vision  was  not  in  itself  a  delusion, 
nor,  indeed,  half  bright  enough.  If  one  could  only  have  been 
left  to  do  his  own  business,  the  vision  would  have  accomp 
lished  itself  and  brought  out  new  paraheliacal  visions,  each 
as  bright  as  the  original.  The  misery  was  and  is,  as  we  found 
but,  I  and  Polly,  before  long,  that,  besides  the  vision,  and 
besides  the  usual  human  and  finite  failures  in  life  (such 
as  breaking  the  old  pitcher  that  came  over  in  the  May 
flower,  and  putting  into  the  fire  the  alpenstock  with  which 
her  father  climbed  Mont  Blanc) — besides  these,  I  say, 
(imitating  the  style  of  Robinson  Crusoe)  there  were  pitch 
forked  in  on  us  a  great  rowen-heap  of  humbugs,  handed  down 
from  some  unknown  seed-time,  in  which  we  were  expected, 
and  I  chiefly,  to  fulfill  certain  public  functions  before  the 
community,  of  the  character  of  those  fulfilled  by  the  third 
TOW  of  supernumeraries  who  stand  behind  the  Sepoys  in  the 
spectacle  of  the  Cataract  of  the  Ganges.  They  were  the 
duties,  in  a  word,  which  one  performs  as  member  of  one  or 
another  social  class  or  subdivision,  wholly  distinct  from  what 
one  does  as  A  by  himself  A.  What  invisible  power  put  these 
functions  on  me,  it  would  be  very  hard  to  tell.  But  such 
power  there  was  and  is.  And  I  had  not  been  at  work  a  year 
before  I  found  I  was  living  two  lives  for  two  sets  of  people, 
one  real  and  one  merely  functional — one  my  parish,  whom  I 
loved,  and  the  other  a  vague  public,  for  whom  I  did  not  care 
two  straws.  All  this  was  in  a  vague  notion,  which  every 
body  had  and  has,  that  this  second  life  would  eventually 
bring  out  some  great  results,  unknown  at  present,  to  some 
body  somewhere. 

Crazed  by  this  duality  of  life,  I  first  read  Dr.  Wigan  on 
the  Duality  of  the  Brain,  hoping  that  I  could  train  one  side 
of  my  head  to  do  these  outside  jobs,  and  the  other  to  do  my 


MY  DOUBLE;  AND  HOW,  HE  UNDID  ME         5 

intimate  and  real  duties.  For  Richard  Greenough  once  told 
me  that,  in  studying  for  the  statue  of  Franklin,  he  found 
that  the  left  side  of  the  great  man's  face  was  philosophic  and 
reflective,  and  the  right  side  funny  and  smiling.  If  you 
will  go  and  look  at  the  bronze  statue,  you  will  find  he  has 
repeated  this  observation  there  for  posterity.  The  eastern 
profile  is  the  portrait  of  the  statesman  Franklin,  the  western 
of  Poor  Richard.  But  Dr.  Wigan  does  not  go  into  these, 
niceties  of  this  subject,  and  I  failed.  It  was  then,  that,  on 
my  wife's  suggestion,  I  resolved  to  look  out  for  a  Double. 

I  was,  at  first,  singularly  successful.  We  happened  to  be 
recreating  at  Stafford  Springs  that  summer.  We  rode  out 
one  day,  for  one  of  the  relaxations  of  that  watering-place, 
to  the  great  Monsonpon  House.  We  were  passing  through 
one  of  the  large  halls,  when  my  destiny  was  fulfilled  I  I  saw 
my  man ! 

He  was  not  shaven.  He  had  on  no  spectacles.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  green  baize  roundabout  and  faded  blue  overalls, 
worn  sadly  at  the  knee.  But  I  saw  at  once  that  he  was  of 
my  height,  five  feet  four  and  a  half.  He  had  black  hair, 
worn  off  by  his  hat.  So  have  and  have  not  I.  He  stooped 
in  walking.  So  do  I.  His  hands  were  large,  and  mine.  And 
— choicest  gift  of  Fate  in  all — he  had,  not  "a  strawberry- 
mark  on  his  left  arm,"  but  a  cut  from  a  juvenile  brickbat 
over  his  right  eye,  slightly  affecting  the  play  of  that  eye 
brow.  Reader,  so  have  II  My  fate  was  sealed! 

A  word  with  Mr.  Holly,  one  of  the  inspectors,  settled  the 
whole  thing.  It  proved  that  this  Dennis  Shea  was  a  harm 
less,  amiable  fellow,  one  of  the  class  known  as  shiftless,  who 
had  sealed  his  fate  by  marrying  a  dumb  wife,  who  was  at  that 
moment  ironing  in  the  laundry.  Before  I  left  Stafford,  I 
had  hired  both  for  five  years.  We  had  applied  to  Judge 
Pynchon,  then  the  probate  judge  at  Springfield,  to  change 
the  name  of  Dennis  Shea  to  Frederic  Ingham.  We  had  ex 
plained  to  the  Judge,  what  was  the  precise  truth,  that  an 
eccentric  gentleman  wished  to  adopt  Dennis  under  this  new 
name  into  his  family.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  Dennis 
might  be  more  than  fourteen  years  old.  And  thus,  to  shorten 
this  preface,  when  we  returned  at  night  to  my  parsonage  at 


6     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

Naguadavick,  there  entered  Mrs.  Ingham,  her  new  dumb 
laundress,  myself,  who  am  Mr.  Frederic  Ingham,  and  my 
double,  who  was  Mr.  Frederic  Ingham  by  as  good  right  as  I. 
Oh,  the  fun  we  had  the  next  morning  in  shaving  his  beard 
to  my  pattern,  cutting  his  hair  to  match  mine,  and  teaching 
him  how  to  wear  and  how  to  take  off  gold-bowed  spectacles ! 
Really,  they  were  electro-plate,  and  the  glass  was  plain  (for 
the  poor  fellow's  eyes  were  excellent).  Then  in  four  suc 
cessive  afternoons  I  taught  him  four  speeches.  I  had  found 
these  would  be  quite  enough  for  the  supernumerary-Sepoy 
line  of  life,  and  it  was  well  for  me  they  were.  For  though 
he  was  good-natured,  he  was  very  shiftless,  and  it  was,  as  our 
.  national  proverb  says,  "like  pulling  teeth"  to  teach  him. 
But  at  the  end  of  the  next  week  he  could  say,  with  quite  my 
easy  and  frisky  air: 

1.  "Very  well,  thank  you.     And  you?"     This  for  an 
answer  to  casual  salutations. 

2.  "I  am  very  glad  you  liked  it." 

3.  "There  has  been  so  much  said,  and,  on  the  whole,  so 
well  said,  that  I  will  not  occupy  the  time." 

4.  "I  agree,  in  general,  with  my  friend  the  other  side  of  the 
room." 

At  first  I  had  a  feeling  that  I  was  going  to  be  at  great  cost 
for  clothing  him.  But  it  proved,  of  course,  at  once,  that, 
whenever  he  was  out,  I  should  be  at  home.  And  I  went,  dur 
ing  the  bright  period  of  his  success,  to  so  few  of  those  awful 
pageants  which  require  a  black  dress-coat  and  what  the  un 
godly  call,  after  Mr.  Dickens,  a  white  choker,  that  in  the 
happy  retreat  of  my  own  dressing-gowns  and  jackets  my  days 
went  by  as  happily  and  cheaply  as  those  of  another  Thalaba. 
And  Polly  declares  there  was  never  a  year  when  the  tailoring 
cost  so  little.  He  lived  (Dennis,  not  Thalaba)  in  his  wife's 
room  over  the  kitchen.  He  had  orders  never  to  show  him 
self  at  that  window.  When  he  appeared  in  the  front  of  the 
house,  I  retired  to  my  sanctissimum  and  my  dressing-gown. 
In  short,  the  Dutchman  and  his  wife,  in  the  old  weather-box, 
had  not  less  to  do  with  each  other  than  he  and  I.  He  made 
the  furnace-fire  and  split  the  wood  before  daylight;  then  he 
went  to  sleep  again,  and  slept  late;  then  came  for  orders, 


MY  DOUBLE;  AND  HOW  HE  UNDID  ME         7 

with  a  red  silk  bandanna  tied  round  his  head,  with  his  over 
alls  on,  and  his  dress-coat  and  spectacles  off.  If  we  hap 
pened  to  be  interrupted,  no  one  guessed  that  he  was  Frederic 
Ingham  as  well  as  I ;  and,  in  the  neighborhood,  there  grew  up 
an  impression  that  the  minister's  Irishman  worked  da\  -times 
in  the  factory  village  at  New  Coventry.  After  I  haa  jiven 
him  his  orders,  I  never  saw  him  till  the  next  day. 

I  launched  him  by  sending  him  to  a  meeting  of  the  En 
lightenment  Board.  The  Enlightenment  Board  consists  of 
seventy-four  members,  of  whom  sixty-seven  are  necessary 
to  form  a  quorum.  One  becomes  a  member  under  the  regu 
lations  laid  down  in  old  Judge  Dudley's  will.  I  became  one 
by  being  ordained  pastor  of  a  church  in  Naguadavick.  You 
see  you  cannot  help  yourself,  if  you  wouM.  At  this  particular 
time  we  had  had  four  successive  meetings,  averaging  four 
hours  each — wholly  occupied  in  whipping  in  a  quorum.  At 
the  first  only  eleven  men  were  present;  at  the  next,  by  force 
of  three  circulars,  twenty-seven;  at  the  third,  thanks  to  two 
days'  canvassing  by  Auchmuty  and  myself  begging  men  to 
come,  we  had  sixty.  Half  the  others  were  in  Europe.  But 
without  a  quorum  we  could  do  nothing.  All  the  rest  of  us 
waited  grimly  for  our  four  hours,  and  adjourned  without  any 
action.  At  the  fourth  meeting  we  had  flagged  and  only  got 
fifty-nine  together.  But  on  the  first  appearance  of  my  double 
— whom  I  sent  on  this  fatal  Monday  to  the  fifth  meeting — 
he  was  the  sixty-seventh  man  who  entered  the  room.  He  was 
greeted  with  a  storm  of  applause!  The  poor  fellow  had 
missed  his  way — read  the  street  signs  ill  through  his 
spectacles  (very  ill,  in  fact,  without  them) — and  had  not 
dared  to  inquire.  He  entered  the  room,  finding  the  presi 
dent  and  secretary  holding  to  their  chairs  two  judges  of  the 
Supreme  Court,  who  were  also  members  ex  officio,  and  were 
begging  leave  to  go  away.  On  his  entrance  all  was  changed. 
Presto,  the  by-laws  were  amended,  and  the  Western  prop 
erty  was  given  away.  Nobody  stopped  to  converse  with  him. 
He  voted,  as  I  had  charged  him  to  do,  in  every  instance,  with 
the  minority.  I  won  new  laurels  as  a  man  of  sense,  though 
a  little  unpunctual — and  Dennis,  alias  Ingham,  returned  to 
the  parsonage,  astonished  to  see  with  how  little  wisdom  the 


8     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

world  is  governed.  He  cut  a  few  of  my  parishioners  in  the 
street ;  but  he  had  his  glasses  off,  and  I  am  known  to  be  near 
sighted.  Eventually  he  recognized  them  more  readily  than  I. 
I  "set  him  again"  at  the  exhibition  of  the  New  Coventry 
Academy;  and  here  he  undertook  a  "speaking  part" — as, 
in  ir  ,  ooyish,  worldly  days,  I  remember  the  bills  used  to  say 
of  Mile.  Celeste.  We  are  all  trustees  of  the  New  Coventry 
Academy;  and  there  has  lately  been  "a  good  deal  of  feeling" 
because  the  Sandemanian  trustees  did  not  regularly  attend 
the  exhibitions.  It  has  been  intimated,  indeed,  that  the 
Sandemanians  are  leaning  towards  Free-Will,  and  that  we 
have,  therefore,  neglected  these  semi-annual  exhibitions,  while 
there  is  no  doubt  that  Auchmuty  last  year  went  to  Com 
mencement  at  Waterville.  Now  the  head  master  at  New 
Coventry  is  a  real  good  fellow,  who  knows  a  Sanskrit  root 
when  he  sees  it,  and  often  cracks  etymologies  with  me,  so 
that,  in  strictness,  I  ought  to  go  to  their  exhibitions.  But 
think,  reader,  of  sitting  through  three  long  July  days  in  that 
Academy  chapel,  following  the  programme  from 

TUESDAY   MORNING.     English  Composition.     "SUNSHINE.'*     Miss 
Jones. 

round  to 

Trio  on  Three  Pianos.    Duet  from  the  Opera  of  "MIDSHIPMAN 
EAST."     Marryatt. 

coming  in  at  nine,  Thursday  evening  I  Think  of  this,  reader, 
for  men  who  know  the  world  is  trying  to  go  backward,  and 
who  would  give  their  lives  if  they  could  help  it  on!  Well! 
The  double  had  succeeded  so  well  at  the  Board,  that  I  sent 
him  to  the  Academy.  (Shade  of  Plato,  pardon!)  He 
arrived  early  on  Tuesday,  when,  indeed,  few  but  mothers 
and  clergymen  are  generally  expected,  and  returned  in  the 
evening  to  us,  covered  with  honors.  He  had  dined  at  the 
right  hand  of  the  chairman,  and  spoke  in  high  terms  of  the 
repast.  The  chairman  had  expressed  his  interest  in  the 
French  conversation.  "I  am  very  glad  you  liked  it,"  said 
Dennis;  and  the  poor  chairman,  abashed,  supposed  the  ac 
cent  had  been  wrong.  At  the  end  of  the  day,  the  gentlemen 
present  bad  been  called  upon  for  speeches — the  Rev.  Frederic 


MY  DOUBLE;  AND  HOW  HL  UNDID  ME         9 

Ingham  first,  as  it  happened;  upon  which  Dennis  had  risen, 
and  had  said,  "There  has  been  so  much  said,  and,  on  the 
whole,  so  well  said,  that  I  will  not  occupy  the  time."  The 
girls  were  delighted  because  Dr.  Dabney,  the  year  before, 
had  given  them  at  this  occasion  a  scolding  on  impropriety  of 
behavior  at  lyceum  lectures.  They  all  declared  Mr.  Ingham 
was  a  love, — and  so  handsome!  (Dennis  is  good-looking.) 
Three  of  them,  with  arms  behind  the  others'  waists,  followed 
him  up  to  the  wagon  he  rode  home  in ;  and  a  little  girl  with  a 
blue  sash  had  been  sent  to  give  him  a  rosebud.  After  this 
debut  in  speaking,  he  went  to  the  exhibition  for  two  days 
more,  to  the  mutual  satisfaction  of  all  concerned.  Indeed, 
Polly  reported  that  he  had  pronounced  the  trustees'  dinners 
of  a  higher  grade  than  those  of  the  parsonage.  When  the 
next  term  began,  I  found  six  of  the  Academy  girls  had  ob 
tained  permission  to  come  across  the  river  and  attend  our 
church.  But  this  arrangement  did  not  long  continue. 

After  this  he  went  to  several  Commencements  for  me,  and 
ate  the  dinners  provided;  he  sat  through  three  of  our 
Quarterly  Conventions  for  me,  always  voting  judiciously, 
by  the  simple  rule  mentioned  above,  of  siding  with  the 
minority.  And  I,  meanwhile,  who  had  before  been  losing 
caste  among  my  friends,  as  holding  myself  aloof  from  the 
associations  of  the  body,  began  to  rise  in  everybody's  favor. 
"Ingham's  a  good  fellow — always  on  hand";  "never  talks 
much — but  does  the  right  thing  at  the  right  time";  "is  not 
as  unpunctual  as  he  used  to  be — he  comes  early,  and  sits 
through  to  the  end."  "He  has  got  over  his  old  talkative  habit, 
too.  I  spoke  to  a  friend  of  his  about  it  once;  and  I  think 
Ingham  took  it  kindly,"  etc.,  etc. 

This  voting  power  of  Dennis  was  particularly  valuable  at 
the  quarterly  meetings  of  the  Proprietors  of  the  Naguadavick 
Ferry.  My  wife  inherited  from  her  father  some  shares  in  that 
enterprise,  which  is  not  yet  fully  developed,  though  it  doubt 
less  will  become  a  very  valuable  property.  The  law  of  Maine 
then  forbade  stockholders  to  appear  by  proxy  at  such  meet 
ings.  Polly  disliked  to  go,  not  being,  in  fact,  a  "hens'-rights 
hen,"  and  transferred  her  stock  to  me.  I,  after  going  once, 
disliked  it  more  than  she.  But  Dennis  went  to  the  next 


10    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

meeting  and  liked  it  very  much.  He  said  the  armchairs  were 
good,  the  collation  good,  and  the  free  rides  to  stockholders 
pleasant.  He  was  a  little  frightened  when  they  first  took 
him  upon  one  of  the  ferry-boats,  but  after  two  or  three 
quarterly  meetings  he  became  quite  brave. 

Thus  far  I  never  had  any  difficulty  with  him.  Indeed, 
being  of  that  type  which  is  called  shiftless,  he  was  only  too 
happy  to  be  told  daily  what  to  do,  and  to  be  charged  not  to 
be  forthputting  or  in  any  way  original  in  his  discharge  of  that 
duty.  He  learned,  however,  to  discriminate  between  the  lines 
of  his  life,  and  very  much  preferred  these  stockholders'  meet 
ings  and  trustees'  dinners  and  Commencement  collations  to 
another  set  of  occasions,  from  which  he  used  to  beg  off  most 
piteously.  Our  excellent  brother,  Dr.  Fillmore,  had  taken 
a  notion  at  this  time  that  our  Sandemanian  churches  needed 
more  expression  of  mutual  sympathy.  He  insisted  upon  it 
that  we  were  remiss.  He  said,  that,  if  the  Bishop  came  to 
preach  at  Naguadavick,  all  the  Episcopal  clergy  of  the 
neighborhood  were  present;  if  Dr.  Pond  came,  all  the  Con 
gregational  clergymen  turned  out  to  hear  him ;  if  Dr.  Nichols, 
all  the  Unitarians;  and  he  thought  we  owed  it  to  each  other, 
that,  whenever  there  was  an  occasional  service  at  a  Sande 
manian  church,  the  other  brethren  should  all,  if  possible,  at 
tend.  "It  looked  well,"  if  nothing  more.  Now  this  really 
meant  that  I  had  not  been  to  hear  one  of  Dr.  Fillmore's 
lectures  on  the  Ethnology  of  Religion.  He  forgot  that  he 
did  not  hear  one  of  my  course  on  the  "Sandemanianism  of 
Anselm."  But  I  felt  badly  when  he  said  it;  and  afterwards 
I  always  made  Dennis  go  to  hear  all  the  brethren  preach, 
when  I  was  not  preaching  myself.  This  was  what  he  took 
exception  to — the  only  thing,  as  I  said,  which  he  ever 
did  except  to.  Now  came  the  advantage  of  his  long  morning- 
nap,  and  of  the  green  tea  with  which  Polly  supplied  the 
kitchen.  But  he  would  plead,  so  humbly,  to  be  let  off,  only 
from  one  or  two!  I  never  excepted  him,  howewer.  I  knew 
the  lectures  were  of  value,  and  I  thought  it  best  he  should 
be  able  to  keep  the  connection. 

Polly  is  more  rash  than  I  am,  as  the  reader  has  observed 
in  the  outset  of  this  memoir.  She  risked  Dennis  one  night 


MY  DOUBLE;  AND  HOW  HE  UNDID  ME        u 

under  the  eyes  of  her  own  sex.  Governor  Gorges  had  always 
been  very  kind  to  us ;  and  when  he  gave  his  great  annual  party 
to  the  town,  asked  us.  I  confess  I  hated  to  go.  I  was  deep  in 
the  new  volume  of  Pfeiffer's  Mystics,  which  Haliburton 
had  just  sent  me  from  Boston.  "But  how  rude,"  said  Polly, 
"not  to  return  the  Governor's  civility  and  Mrs.  Gorges 's,  when 
they  will  be  sure  to  ask  why  you  are  away!"  Still  I  de 
murred,  and  at  last  she,  with  the  wit  of  Eve  and  of  Semiramis 
conjoined,  let  me  off  by  saying,  that  if  I  would  go  in  with  her, 
and  sustain  the  initial  conversations  with  the  Governor  and 
the  ladies  staying  there,  she  would  risk  Dennis  for  the  rest 
of  the  evening.  And  that  was  just  what  we  did.  She  took 
Dennis  in  training  all  that  afternoon,  instructed  him  in 
fashionable  conversation,  cautioned  him  against  the  tempta 
tions  of  the  supper-table — and  at  nine  in  the  evening  he  drove 
us  all  down  in  the  carry-all.  I  made  the  grand  st&r-entree 
with  Polly  and  the  pretty  Walton  girls,  who  were  staying  with 
us.  We  had  put  Dennis  into  a  great  rough  top-coat,  without 
his  glasses — and  the  girls  never  dreamed,  in  the  darkness,  of 
looking  at  him.  He  sat  in  the  carriage,  at  the  door,  while  we 
entered.  I  did  the  agreeable  to  Mrs.  Gorges,  was  introduced 
to  her  niece,  Miss  Fernanda — I  complimented  Judge  Jeffries 
on  his  decision  in  the  great  case  of  D'Aulnay  vs.  Laconia 
Mining  Co. — I  stepped  into  the  dressing-room  for  a  moment — 
stepped  out  for  another — walked  home,  after  a  nod  with 
Dennis,  and  tying  the  horse  to  a  pump — and  while  I  walked 
home,  Mr.  Frederic  Ingham,  my  double,  stepped  in  through 
the  library  into  the  Gorges's  grand  saloon. 

Oh !  Polly  died  of  laughing  as  she  told  me  of  it  at  midnight ! 
And  even  here,  where  I  have  to  teach  my  hands  to  hew  the 
beech  for  stakes  to  fence  our  cave,  she  dies  of  laughing  as 
she  recalls  it — and  says  that  single  occasion  was  worth  all 
we  have  paid  for  it.  Gallant  Eve  that  she  is!  She  joined 
Dennis  at  the  library  door,  and  in  an  instant  presented  him 
to  Dr.  Ochterlong,  from  Baltimore,  who  was  on  a  visit  in 
town,  and  was  talking  with  her,  as  Dennis  came  in.  "Mr. 
Ingham  would  like  to  hear  what  you  were  telling  us  about 
your  success  among  the  German  population."  And  Dennis 
bowed  and  said,  in  spite  of  a  scowl  from  Polly,  "I'm  very 


12     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

glad  you  liked  it."  But  Mr.  Ochterlong  did  not  observe,  and 
plunged  into  the  tide  of  explanation — Dennis  listening  like  a 
prime-minister,  and  bowing  like  a  mandarin — which  is,  I 
suppose,  the  same  thing.  Polly  declared  it  was  just  like 
Haliburton's  Latin  conversation  with  the  Hungarian  minister, 
of  which  he  is  very  fond  of  telling.  "Qucene  sit  historia 
Reformations  in  Ungarid?"  quoth  Haliburton,  after  some 
thought.  And  his  confrere  replied  gallantly,  "In  seculo  decimo 
tertio,"  etc.;  and  from  decimo  tertio*  to  the  nineteenth 
century  and  a  half  lasted  till  the  oysters  came.  So  was 
it  that  before  Dr.  Ochterlong  came  to  the  "success,"  or  near 
it,  Governor  Gorges  came  to  Dennis  and  asked  him  to  hand 
Mrs.  Jeffries  down  to  supper,  a  request  which  he  heard  with 
great  joy. 

Polly  was  skipping  round  the  room,  I  guess,  gay  as  a  lark. 
Auchmuty  came  to  her  "in  pity  for  poor  Ingham,"  who  was 
so  bored  by  the  stupid  pundit — and  Auchmuty  could  not  un 
derstand  why  I  stood  it  so  long.  But  when  Dennis  took  Mrs. 
Jeffries  down,  Polly  could  not  resist  standing  near  them.  He 
was  a  little  flustered,  till  the  sight  of  the  eatables  and  drink 
ables  gave  him  the  same  Mercian  courage  which  it  gave 
Diggory.  A  little  excited  then,  he  attempted  one  or  two  of  his 
speeches  to  the  Judge's  lady.  But  little  he  knew  how  hard  it 
was  to  get  in  even  a  promptu  there  edgewise.  "Very  well,  I 
thank  you,"  said  he,  after  the  eating  elements  were  adjusted; 
"and  you?"  And  then  did  not  he  have  to  hear  about  the 
mumps,  and  the  measles,  and  arnica,  and  belladonna,  and 
camomile-flower,  and  dodecathem,  till  she  changed  oysters 
for  salad — and  then  about  the  old  practice  and  the  new,  and 
what  her  sister  said,  and  what  her  sister's  friend  said,  and 
what  the  physician  to  her  sister's  friend  said,  and  then  what 
was  said  by  the  brother  of  the  sister  of  the  physician  of  the 
friend  of  Her  sister,  exactly  as  if  it  had  been  in  Ollendorff  ? 
There  was  a  moment's  pause,  as  she  declined  champagne. 
"I  am  very  glad  you  liked  it,"  said  Dennis  again,  which  he 
never  should  have  said  but  to  one  who  complimented  a  ser- 

*  Which  means,  "In  the  thirteenth  century,"  my  dear  little  bell-and- 
coral  reader.  You  have  rightly  guessed  that  the  question  means, 
"What  is  the  history  of  the  Reformation  in  Hungary?" 


MY  DOUBLE;  AND  HOW  HE  UNDID  ME        13 

mon.  "Oh!  you  are  so  sharp,  Mr.  Ingham!  No!  I  never 
drink  any  wine  at  all — except  sometimes  in  summer  a  little 
currant  spirits  from  our  own  currants,  you  know.  My  own 
mother — that  is,  I  call  her  my  own  mother,  because,  you 
know,  I  do  not  remember,"  etc. ;  till  they  came  to  the  candied 
orange  at  the  end  of  the  feast,  when  Dennis,  rather  confused, 
thought  he  must  say  something,  and  tried  No.  4 — "I  agree, 
in  general,  with  my  friend,  the  other  side  of  the  room" — 
which  he  never  should  have  said  but  at  a  public  meeting. 
But  Mrs.  Jeffries,  who  never  listens  expecting  to  understand, 
caught  him  up  instantly  with,  "Well,  I'm  sure  my  husband 
returns  the  compliment;  he  always  agrees  with  you — 
though  we  do  worship  with  the  Methodists — but  you  know, 
Mr.  Ingham,"  etc.,  till  the  move  was  made  upstairs;  and  as 
Dennis  led  her  through  the  hall,  he  was  scarcely  understood 
by  any  but  Polly,  as  he  said,  "There  has  been  so  much  said, 
and,  on  the  whole,  so  well  said,  that  I  will  not  occupy  the 
time." 

His  great  resource  the  rest  of  the  evening  was  standing  in 
the  library,  carrying  on  animated  conversations  with  one  and 
another  in  much  the  same  way.  Polly  had  initiated  him  in 
the  mysteries  of  a  discovery  of  mine,  that  it  is  not  necessary 
to  finish  your  sentences  in  a  crowd,  but  by  a  sort  of  mumble, 
omitting  sibilants  and  dentals.  This,  indeed,  if  your  words 
fail  you,  answers  even  in  public  extempore  speech — but  better 
where  other  talking  is  going  on.  Thus,  "We  missed  you  at 
the  Natural  History  Society,  Ingham."  Ingham  replies,  "I 
am  very  gligloglum,  that  is,  that  you  were  mmmmm."  By 
gradually  dropping  the  voice,  the  interlocutor  is  compelled  to 
supply  the  answer.  "Mrs.  Ingham,  I  hope  your  friend 
Augusta  is  better."  Augusta  has  not  been  ill.  Polly  cannot 
think  of  explaining,  however,  and  answers,  "Thank  you, 
Ma'am;  she  is  very  rearason  wewahwewoh,"  in  lower  and 
lower  tones.  And  Mrs.  Throckmorton,  who  forgot  the  sub 
ject  of  which  she  spoke  as  soon  as  she  asked  the  question,  is 
quite  satisfied.  Dennis  could  see  into  the  card-room,  and 
came  to  Polly  to  ask  if  he  might  not  go  and  play  all-fours. 
But,  of  course,  she  sternly  refused.  At  midnight  they  came 
home  delighted,  Polly,  as  I  said,  wild  to  tell  me  the  story  of 


14    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

victory;   only  both  the  pretty  Walton  girls  said,   "Cousin 
Frederic,  you  did  not  come  near  me  all  the  evening." 

We  always  called  him  Dennis  at  home,  for  convenience, 
though  his  real  name  was  Frederic  Ingham,  as  I  have  ex 
plained.  When  the  election-day  came  round,  however,  I 
found  that  by  some  accident  there  was  only  one  Frederic 
Ingham 's  name  on  the  voting-list;  and,  as  I  was  quite  busy 
that  day  in  writing  some  foreign  letters  to  Halle,  I  thought 
I  would  forego  my  privilege  of  suffrage,  and  stay  quietly  at 
home,  telling  Dennis  that  he  might  use  the  record  on  the  vot 
ing-list  and  vote.  I  gave  him  a  ticket,  which  I  told  him  he 
might  use,  if  he  liked  to.  That  was  that  very  sharp  election 
in  Maine  which  the  readers  of  the  Atlantic  so  well  re 
member,  and  it  had  been  intimated  in  public  that  the  minis 
ters  would  do  well  not  to  appear  at  the  polls.  Of  course, 
after  that,  we  had  to  appear  by  self  or  proxy.  Still,  Nagua- 
davick  was  not  then  a  city,  and  this  standing  in  a  double 
queue  at  town  meeting  several  hours  to  vote  was  a  bore  of 
the  first  water;  and  so,  when  I  found  that  there  was  but  one 
Frederic  Ingham  on  the  list,  and  that  one  of  us  must  give  up, 
I  staid  at  home  and  finished  the  letters  (which,  indeed,  pro 
cured  for  Fothergill  his  coveted  appointment  of  Professor  of 
Astronomy  at  Leavenworth),  and  I  gave  Dennis,  as  we 
called  him,  the  chance.  Something  in  the  matter  gave  a  good 
deal  of  popularity  to  the  Frederic  Ingham  name;  and  at  the 
adjourned  election,  next  week,  Frederic  Ingham  was  chosen 
to  the  legislature.  Whether  this  was  I  or  Dennis,  I  never 
really  knew.  My  friends  seemed  to  think  it  was  I;  but  I 
felt,  that,  as  Dennis  had  done  the  popular  thing,  he  was  en 
titled  to  the  honor;  so  I  sent  him  to  Augusta  when  the  time 
came,  and  he  took  the  oaths.  And  a  very  valuable  member 
he  made.  They  appointed  him  on  the  Committee  on  Parishes; 
but  I  wrote  a  letter  for  him,  resigning,  on  the  ground  that  he 
took  an  interest  in  our  claim  to  the  stumpage  in  the  minister's 
sixteenths  of  Gore  A,  next  No.  7,  in  the  10th  Range.  He 
never  made  any  speeches,  and  always  voted  with  the  mi 
nority,  which  was  what  he  was  sent  to  do.  He  made  me  and 
himself  a  great  many  good  friends,  some  of  whom  I  did  not 
afterwards  recognize  as  quickly  as  Dennis  did  my  parish- 


MY  DOUBLE;  AND  HOW  HE  UNDID  ME        15 

ioners.  On  one  or  two  occasions,  when  there  was  wood  to 
saw  at  home,  I  kept  him  at  home;  but  I  took  those  occasions 
to  go  to  Augusta  myself.  Finding  myself  often  in  his  vacant 
seat  at  these  times,  I  watched  the  proceedings  with  a  good 
deal  of  care;  and  once  was  so  much  excited  that  I  delivered 
my  somewhat  celebrated  speech  on  the  Central  School-District 
question,  a  speech  of  which  the  State  of  Maine  printed 
some  extra  copies.  I  believe  there  is  no  formal  rule  per 
mitting  strangers  to  speak,  but  no  one  objected. 

Dennis  himself,  as  I  said,  never  spoke  at  all.  But  our 
experience  this  session  led  me  to  think,  that,  if  by  some  such 
"general  understanding"  as  the  reports  speak  of  in  legislation 
daily,  every  member  of  Congress  might  leave  a  double  to  sit 
through  those  deadly  sessions  and  answer  to  roll-calls  and  do 
the  legitimate  party-voting,  which  appears  stereotyped  in  th§ 
regular  list  of  Ashe,  Bocock,  Black,  etc.,  we  should  gain 
decidedly  in  working-power.  As  things  stand,  the  saddest 
state  prison  I  ever  visit  is  that  Representatives'  Chamber  in 
Washington.  If  a  man  leaves  for  an  hour,  twenty  "correspon 
dents"  may  be  howling,  "Where  was  Mr.  Pendergrast  when 
the  Oregon  bill  passed?"  And  if  poor  Pendergrast  stays 
there !  Certainly,  the  worst  use  you  can  make  of  a  man  is  to 
put  him  in  prison  I 

I  know,  indeed,  that  public  men  of  the  highest  rank  have 
resorted  to  this  expedient  long  ago.  Dumas's  novel  of  The 
Iron  Mask  turns  on  the  brutal  imprisonment  of  Louis  the 
Fourteenth's  double.  There  seems  little  doubt,  in  our  own 
history,  that  it  was  the  real  General  Pierce  who  shed  tears 
when  the  delegates  from  Lawrence  explained  to  him  the  suffer 
ings  of  the  people  there — and  only  General  Pierce's  double 
who  had  given  the  orders  for  the  assault  on  that  town,  which 
was  invaded  the  next  day.  My  charming  friend  George 
Withers,  has,  I  am  almost  sure,  a  double  who  preaches  his 
afternoon  sermons  for  him.  This  is  the  reason  that  the 
theology  often  varies  so  from  that  of  the  forenoon.  But  that 
double  is  almost  as  charming  as  the  original.  Some  of  the 
most  well-defined  men  who  stand  out  most  prominently  on 
the  background  of  history,  are  in  this  way  stereoscopic  men 
who  owe  their  distinct  relief  to  the  slight  differences  between 


16     THE  GREAT  MODERN,  AMERICAN  STORIES 

the  doubles.  All  this  I  know.  My  present  suggestion  is 
simply  the  great  extension  of  the  system,  so  that  all  public 
machine-work  may  be  done  by  it. 

But  I  see  I  loiter  on  my  story,  which  is  rushing  to  the 
plunge.  Let  me  stop  an  instant  more,  however,  to  recall, 
were  it  only  to  myself,  that  charming  year  while  all  was  yet 
well.  After  the  double  had  become  a  matter  of  course  for 
nearly  twelve  months  before  he  undid  me,  what  a  year  it  was ! 
Full  of  active  life,  full  of  happy  love,  of  the  hardest  work, 
of  the  sweetest  sleep,  and  the  fulfillment  of  so  many  of  the 
fresh  aspirations  and  dreams  of  boyhood!  Dennis  went  to 
every  school-committee  meeting,  and  sat  through  all  those 
late  wranglings  which  used  to  keep  me  up  till  midnight  and 
awake  till  morning.  He  attended  all  the  lectures  to  which 
foreign  exiles  sent  me  tickets  begging  me  to  come  for  the 
love  of  Heaven  and  of  Bohemia.  He  accepted  and  used  all 
the  tickets  for  charity  concerts  which  were  sent  to  me.  He 
appeared  everywhere  where  it  was  specially  desirable  that 
"our  denomination,"  or  "our  party,"  or  "our  class,"  or  "our 
family,"  or  "our  street,"  or  "our  town,"  or  "our  county,"  or 
"our  State,"  should  be  fully  represented.  And  I  fell  back 
to  that  charming  life  which  in  boyhood  one  dreams  of,  when 
he  supposes  he  shall  do  his  own  duty  and  make  his  own 
sacrifices,  without  being  tied  up  with  those  of  other  people. 
My  rusty  Sanskrit,  Arabic,  Hebrew,  Greek,  Latin,  French, 
Italian,  Spanish,  German  and  English  began  to  take  polish. 
Heavens !  how  little  I  had  done  with  them  while  I  attended  to 
my  public  duties !  My  calls  on  my  parishioners  became  the 
friendly,  frequent,  homelike  sociabilities  they  were  meant 
to  be,  instead  of  the  hard  work  of  a  man  goaded  to  despera 
tion  by  the  sight  of  his  lists  of  arrears.  And  preaching — 
what  a  luxury  preaching  was  when  I  had  on  Sunday  the  whole 
result  of  an  individual,  personal  week,  from  which  to  speak 
to  a  people  whom  all  that  week  I  had  been  meeting  as  hand- 
to-hand  friend !  I  never  tired  on  Sunday,  and  was  in  condi 
tion  to  leave  the  sermon  at  home,  if  I  chose,  and  preach  it 
extempore,  as  all  men  should  do  always.  Indeed,  I  wonder, 
when  I  think  that  a  sensible  people  like  ours — really  more 
attached  to  their  clergy  than  they  were  in  the  lost  days  when 


MY  DOUBLE;  AND  HOW  HE  UNDID  ME        17 

the  Mathers  and  Nortons  were  noblemen — should  choose  to 
neutralize  so  much  of  their  ministers'  lives,  and  destroy  so 
much  of  their  early  training,  by  this  undefined  passion  for 
seeing  them  in  public.  It  springs  from  our  balancing  of 
sects.  If  a  spirited  Episcopalian  takes  an  interest  in  the 
alms-house,  and  is  put  on  the  Poor  Board,  every  other  de 
nomination  must  have  a  minister  there,  lest  the  poor-house 
be  changed  into  St.  Paul's  Cathedral.  If  a  Sandemanian  is 
chosen  president  of  the  Young  Men's  Library,  there  must 
be  a  Methodist  vice-president  and  a  Baptist  secretary.  And 
if  a  Universalist  Sunday-School  Convention  collects  five  hun 
dred  delegates,  the  next  Congregationalist  Sabbath-School 
Conference  must  be  as  large,  "lest  'they' — whoever  'they'  may 
be — should  think  'we' — whoever  'we'  may  be — are  going 
down." 

Freed  from  these  necessities,  that  happy  year,  I  began  to 
know  my  wife  by  sight.  We  saw  each  other  sometimes.  In 
those  long  mornings,  when  Dennis  was  in  the  study  explaining 
to  map-peddlers  that  I  had  eleven  maps  of  Jerusalem  already, 
and  to  school-book  agents  that  I  would  see  them  hanged 
before  I  would  be  bribed  to  introduce  their  text-books  into  the 
schools,  she  and  I  were  at  work  together — as  in  those  old 
dreamy  days  and  in  these  of  our  log-cabin  again.  But  all 
this  could  not  last — and  at  length  poor  Dennis,  my  double, 
over-tasked  in  turn,  undid  me. 

It  was  thus  it  happened:  There  is  an  excellent  fellow, 
once  a  minister — I  will  call  him  Isaacs — who  deserves  well 
of  the  world  till  he  dies  and  after,  because  he  once,  in  a 
real  exigency,  did  the  right  thing  in  the  right  way,  at  the 
right  time,  as  no  other  man  could  do  it.  In  the  world's  great 
football  match,  the  ball  by  chance  found  him  loitering  on 
the  outside  of  the  field;  he  closed  with  it,  "camped"  it, 
charged  it  home — yes,  right  through  the  other  side — not  dis 
turbed,  not  frightened  by  his  own  success — and  breathless 
found  himself  a  great  man,  as  the  Great  Delta  rang  applause. 
But  he  did  not  find  himself  a  rich  man;  and  the  football  has 
never  come  to  his  way  again.  From  that  moment  to  this 
moment  he  has  been  of  no  use,  that  one  can  see,  at  all.  Still, 
for  that  great  act  we  speak  of  Isaacs  gratefully  and  remember 


i8     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

him  kindly;  and  he  forges  on,  hoping  to  meet  the  football 
somewhere  again.  In  the  vague  hope,  he  had  arranged  a 
"movement"  for  a  general  organization  of  the  human  family 
into  debating  clubs,  county  societies,  state  unions,  etc., 
with  a  view  of  inducing  all  children  to  take  hold  of  the 
handles  of  their  knives  and  forks,  instead  of  the  metal.  Chil 
dren  have  bad  habits  in  that  way.  The  movement,  of  course, 
was  absurd;  but  we  all  did  our  best  to  forward,  not  it,  but 
him.  It  came  time  for  the  annual  county-meeting  on  this 
subject  to  be  held  at  Naguadavick.  Isaacs  came  round — 
good  fellow! — to  arrange  for  it;  got  the  town-hall,  got  the 
Governor  to  preside  (the  saint! — he  ought  to  have  triplet 
-doubles  provided  him  by  law),  and  then  came  to  get  me  to 
speak.  "No,"  I  said,  "I  would  not  speak,  if  ten  Governors 
presided.  I  do  not  believe  in  the  enterprise.  If  I  spoke,  it 
should  be  to  say  children  should  take  hold  of  the  prongs 
of  the  forks  and  the  blades  of  the  knives.  I  would  sub 
scribe  ten  dollars,  but  I  would  not  speak  a  mill."  So  poor 
Isaacs  went  his  way  sadly,  to  coax  Auchmuty  to  speak,  and 
Delafield.  I  went  out.  Not  long  after,  he  came  back,  and 
told  Polly  that  they  had  promised  to  speak,  the  Governor 
would  speak,  and  he  himself  would  close  with  the  quarterly 
report,  and  some  interesting  anecdotes  regarding  Miss 
Biffin's  way  of  handling  her  knife  and  Mr.  Nellis's  way 
of  footing  his  fork.  "Now  if  Mr.  Ingham  will  only  come 
and  sit  on  the  platform,  he  need  not  say  one  word;  but  it 
will  show  well  in  the  paper — it  will  show  that  the  Sande- 
manians  take  as  much  interest  in  the  movement  as  the 
Armenians  or  the  Mesopotamians,  and  will  be  a  great  favor 
to  me."  Polly,  good  soul!  was  tempted,  and  she  promised. 
She  knew  Mrs.  Isaacs  was  starving  and  the  babies,  she 
knew  Dennis  was  at  home — and  she  promised !  Night  came, 
and  I  returned.  I  heard  her  story.  I  was  sorry.  I  doubted. 
But  Polly  had  promised  to  beg  me,  and  I  dared  all.  I  told 
Dennis  to  hold  his  peace,  under  all  circumstances,  and 
sent  him  down. 

It  was  not  half  an  hour  more  before  he  returned,  wild  with 
excitement — in  a  perfect  Irish  fury — which  it  was  long  be- 


M F  DOUBLE;  AND  HOW^  HE  UNDID  ME        19 

fore  I  understood.    But  I  knew  at  once  that  he  had  undone 
me! 

What  happened  was  this:  The  audience  got  together,  at 
tracted  by  Governor  Gorges's  name.  There  were  a  thousand 
people.  Poor  Gorges  was  late  from  Augusta.  They  became 
impatient.  He  came  in  direct  from  the  train  at  last,  really 
ignorant  of  the  object  of  the  meeting.  He  opened  it  in  the 
fewest  possible  words,  and  said  other  gentlemen  were  present 
who  would  entertain  them  better  than  he.  The  audience  were 
disappointed,  but  waited.  The  Governor,  prompted  by 
Isaacs,  said,  "The  Honorable  Mr.  Delafield  will  address 
you."  Delafield  had  forgotten  the  knives  and  forks,  and  was 
playing  Ruy  Lopez  opening  at  the  chess-club.  "The  Rev. 
Mr.  Auchmuty  will  address  you."  Auchmuty  had  promised 
to  speak  late,  and  was  at  the  school-committee.  "I  see  Dr. 
Stearns  in  the  hall;  perhaps  he  will  say  a  word."  Dr.  Stearns 
said  he  had  come  to  listen  and  not  to  speak.  The  Governor 
and  Isaacs  whispered.  The  Governor  looked  at  Dennis,  who 
was  resplendent  on  the  platform;  but  Isaacs,  to  give  him  his 
due,  shook  his  head.  But  the  look  was  enough.  A  miserable 
lad,  ill-bred,  who  had  once  been  in  Boston,  thought  it  would 
sound  well  to  call  for  me,  and  peeped  out,  "Ingham!"  A  few 
more  wretches  cried,  "Ingham!  Ingham!"  Still  Isaacs  was 
firm,  but  the  Governor  anxious,  indeed,  to  prevent  a  row. 
knew  I  would  say  something,  and  said,  "Our  friend  Mr. 
Ingham  is  always  prepared — and  though  we  had  not  relied 
upon  him,  he  will  say  a  word,  perhaps."  Applause  followed, 
which  turned  Dennis's  head.  He  rose,  fluttered,  and  tried 
No.  3 :  "There  has  been  so  much  said,  and,  on  the  whole, 
so  well  said,  that  I  will  not  longer  occupy  the  time!"  and 
sat  down,  looking  for  his  hat;  for  things  seemed  squally.  But 
the  people  cried,  "Go  on!  go  on!"  and  some  applauded. 
Dennis,  still  confused,  but  flattered  by  the  applause,  to  which 
neither  he  nor  I  are  used,  rose  again,  and  this  time  tried  No. 
2:  "I  am  very  glad  you  liked  it!"  in  a  sonorous,  clear  de 
livery.  My  best  friends  stared.  All  the  people  who  did  not 
know  me  personally  yelled  with  delight  at  the  aspect  of  the 
evening;  the  Governor  was  beside  himself,  and  poor  Isaacs 
thought  he  was  undone!  Alas,  it  was  I!  A  boy  in  the 


20    THE  GREAT  MODERN^  AMERICAN  STORIES 

gallery  cried  in  a  loud  tone,  "It's  all  an  infernal  humbug," 
just  as  Dennis,  waving  his  hand,  commanded  silence,  and 
tried  No.  4:  "I  agree,  in  general,  with  by  friend  the  other 
side  of  the  room."  The  poor  Governor  doubted  his  senses, 
and  crossed  to  stop  him — not  in  time,  however.  The  same 
gallery-boy  shouted,  "How's  your  mother?"  and  Dennis, 
now  completely  lost,  tried  as  his  last  shot  No.  1,  vainly: 
"Very  well,  thank  you;  and  you?" 

I  think  I  must  have  been  undone  already.  But  Dennis, 
like  another  Lockhard,  chose  "to  make  sicker."  The  audience 
rose  in  a  whirl  of  amazement,  rage  and  sorrow.  Some  other 
impertinence  aimed  at  Dennis  broke  all  restraint,  and  in 
•pure  Irish  he  delivered  himself  of  an  address  to  the  gallery, 
inviting  any  person  who  wished  to  fight  to  come  down  and 
do  so — stating  that  they  were  all  dogs  and  cowards  and  the 
sons  of  dogs. and  cowards  and  that  he  would  take  any  five  of 
them  single-handed.  "Shure,  I  have  said  all  his  Riverence 
and  the  Misthress  bade  me  say,"  cried  he,  in  defiance;  and 
seizing  the  Governor's  cane  from  his  hand  brandished  it, 
quarter-staff  fashion,  above  his  head.  He  was,  indeed,  got 
from  the  hall  only  with  the  greatest  difficulty  by  the  Gov 
ernor,  the  city  marshal,  who  had  been  called  in,  and  the 
superintendent  of  my  Sunday-School. 

The  universal  impression,  of  course,  was,  that  the  Rev. 
Frederic  Ingham  had  lost  all  command  of  himself  in  some 
of  those  haunts  of  intoxication  which  for  fifteen  years  I  have 
been  laboring  to  destroy.  Till  this  moment,  indeed,  that  is 
the  impression  in  Naguadavick.  This  number  of  the  At 
lantic  will  relieve  from  it  a  hundred  friends  of  mine  who 
have  been  sadly  wounded  by  that  notion  now  for  years ; — but 
I  shall  not  be  likely  ever  to  show  my  head  there  again. 

No !    My  double  has  undone  me. 

We  left  town  at  seven  the  next  morning.  I  came  to  No.  9, 
in  the  Third  Range,  and  settled  on  the  Minister's  Lot.  In 
the  new  towns  in  Maine,  the  first  settled  minister  has  a  gift 
of  a  hundred  acres  of  land.  I  am  the  first  settled  minister  in 
No.  9.  My  wife  and  little  Paulina  are  my  parish.  We  raise 
corn  enough  to  live  on  in  summer.  We  kill  bear's  meat 
enough  to  carbonize  it  in  winter.  I  work  on  steadily  on  my 


MY  DOUBLE;  AND  HOW  HE  UNDID  ME       21 

Traces  of  Sandemanianism  in  the  Sixth  and  Seventh  Cen 
turies,  which  I  hope  to  persuade  Phillips,  Sampson  &  Co. 
to  publish  next  year.  We  are  very  happy,  but  the  world 
thinks  we  are  undone. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  * 

BY  HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD 

SHE  had  remained,  during  all  that  day,  with  a  sick  neigh- 
bor — those  eastern  wilds  of  Maine  in  that  epoch  fre 
quently  making  neighbors  and  miles  synonymous — and 
so  busy  had  she  been  with  care  and  sympathy  that  she  did 
not  at  first  observe  the  approaching  night.  But  finally  the 
level  rays,  reddening  the  snow,  threw  their  gleam  upon  the 
wall,  and,  hastily  donning  cloak  and  hood,  she  bade  her 
friends  farewell  and  sallied  forth  on  her  return.  Home  lay 
some  three  miles  distant,  across  a  copse,  a  meadow,  and  a 
piece  of  woods — the  woods  being  a  fringe  on  the  skirts  of  the 
great  forests  that  stretch  far  away  into  the  North.  That 
home  was  one  of  a  dozen  log-houses  lying  a  few  furlongs 
apart  from  each  other,  with  their  half-cleared  demesnes  sep 
arating  them  at  the  rear  from  a  wilderness  untrodden  save  by 
stealthy  native  or  deadly  panther  tribes. 

She  was  in  a  nowise  exalted  frame  of  spirit — on  the  con 
trary,  rather  depressed  by  the  pain  she  had  witnessed  and  the 
fatigue  she  had  endured;  but  in  certain  temperaments  such 
a  condition  throws  open  the  mental  pores,  so  to  speak,  and 
renders  one  receptive  of  every  influence.  Through  the  little 
copse  she  walked  slowly,  with  her  cloak  folded  about  her, 
lingering  to  imbibe  the  sense  of  shelter,  the  sunset  filtered  in 
purple  through  the  mist  of  woven  spray  and  twig,  the  com 
panionship  of  growth  not  sufficiently  dense  to  band  against 
her  the  sweet  home-feeling  of  a  young  and  tender  winter 
wood.  It  was  therefore  just  on  the  edge  of  the  evening  that 
she  emerged  from  the  place  and  began  to  cross  the  meadow- 
land.  At  one  hand  lay  the  forest  to  which  her  path  wound; 


*  Permission  of  the  author. 

22 


CIRCUMSTANCE  23 

at  the  other  the  evening  star  hung  over  a  tide  of  failing  orange 
that  slowly  slipped  down  the  earth's  broad  side  to  sadden 
other  hemispheres  with  sweet  regret.  Walking  rapidly  now, 
and  with  her  eyes  wide-open,  she  distinctly  saw  in  the  air 
before  her  what  was  not  there  a  moment  ago,  a  winding-sheet 
— cold,  white,  and  ghastly,  waved  by  the  likeness  of  four 
wan  hands — that  rose  with  a  long  inflation  and  fell  in  rigid 
folds,  while  a  voice,  shaping  itself  from  the  hollowness  above, 
spectral  and  melancholy,  sighed,  "The  Lord  have  mercy  on 
the  people!  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  the  people!"  Three 
times  the  sheet  with  its  corpse-covering  outline  waved  beneath 
the  pale  hands,  and  the  voice,  awful  in  its  solemn  and  mys 
terious  depth,  sighed,  "The  Lord  have  mercy  on  the  peo 
ple!"  Then  all  was  gone,  the  place  was  clear  again,  the  gray 
sky  was  obstructed  by  no  deathly  blot;  she  looked  about  her, 
shook  her  shoulders  decidedly,  and,  pulling  on  her  hood,  went 
forward  once  more. 

She  might  have  been  a  little  frightened  by  such  an  appari 
tion  if  she  had  led  a  life  of  less  reality  than  frontier  settlers 
are  apt  to  lead ;  but  dealing  with  hard  fact  does  not  engender 
a  flimsy  habit  of  mind,  and  this  woman  was  too  sincere 
and  earnest  in  her  character,  and  too  happy  in  her  situation 
to  be  thrown  by  antagonism  merely  upon  superstitious  fancies 
and  chimeras  of  the  second-sight.  She  did  not  even  believe 
herself  subject  to  an  hallucination,  but  smiled  simply,  a  little 
vexed  that  her  thought  could  have  framed  such  a  glamour 
from  the  day's  occurrences,  and  not  sorry  to  lift  the  bough 
of  the  warder  of  the  woods  and  enter  and  disappear  in  their 
sombre  path.  If  she  had  been  imaginative,  she  would  have 
hesitated  at  her  first  step  into  a  region  whose  dangers  were 
not  visionary;  but  I  suppose  that  the  thought  of  a  little  child 
at  home  would  conquer  that  propensity  in  the  most  habituated. 
So,  biting  a  bit  of  spicy  birch,  she  went  along.  Now  and 
then  she  came  to  a  gap  where  the  trees  had  been  partially 
felled,  and  here  she  found  that  the  lingering  twilight  was 
explained  by  that  peculiar  and  perhaps  electric  film  which 
sometimes  sheathes  the  sky  in  diffused  light  for  very  many 
hours  before  a  brilliant  aurora.  Suddenly,  a  swift  shadow, 
like  the  fabulous  flying-dragon,  writhed  through  the  air  be- 


24     THE  GREAT  MODERN :  AMERICAN  STORIES 

fore  her,  and  she  felt  herself  instantly  seized  and  borne 
aloft.  It  was  that  wild  beast — the  most  savage  and  serpen 
tine  and  subtle  and  fearless  of  our  latitudes — known  by 
hunters  as  the  Indian  Devil,  and  he,  held  her  in  his  clutches 
on  the  broad  floor  of  a  swinging  fir-bough.  His  long  sharp 
claws  were  caught  in  her  clothing,  he  worried  them  saga 
ciously  a  little,  then,  finding  that  ineffectual  to  free  them,  he 
commenced  licking  her  bare  white  arm  with  his  rasping 
tongue  and  pouring  over  her  the  wide  streams  of  his  hot, 
fetid  breath.  So  quick  had  this  flashing  action  been  that  the 
woman  had  had  no  time  for  alarm,  moreover,  she  was  not 
of  the  screaming  kind;  but  now,  as  she  felt  him  endeavoring 
to  disentangle  his  claws,  and  the  horrid  sense  of  her  fate 
smote  her,  and  she  saw  instinctively  the  fierce  plunge  of  those 
weapons,  the  long  strips  of  living  flesh  torn  from  her  bones, 
the  agony,  the  quivering  disgust — itself  a  worse  agony — 
while  by  her  side  and  holding  her  in  his  great  lithe  em 
brace  the  monster  crouched,  his  white  tusks  whetting  and 
gnashing,  his  eyes  glaring  through  all  the  darkness  like  balls 
of  fire — a  shriek  that  rang  in  every  forest  hollow,  that 
startled  every  winter-housed  thing,  that  stirred  and  woke 
the  last  needle  of  the  tasselled  pines,  tore  through  her  lips. 
A  moment  afterward,  the  beast  left  the  arm,  once  white,  now 
crimson,  and  looked  up  alertly. 

She  did  not  think  at  this  instant  to  call  upon  God.  She 
called  upon  her  husband.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  but 
one  friend  in  the  world — that  was  he;  and  again  the  cry, 
loud,  clear,  prolonged,  echoed  through  the  woods.  It  was  not 
the  shriek  that  disturbed  the  creature  at  his  relish;  he  was 
not  born  in  the  woods  to  be  scared  of  an  owl,  you  know — 
what  then?  It  must  have  been  the  echo,  most  musical,  most 
resonant,  repeated  and  yet  repeated,  dying  with  <  long  sighs 
of  sweet  sound,  vibrated  from  rock  to  river  and  back  again 
from  depth  to  depth  of  cave  and  cliff.  Her  thought  flew  after 
it ;  she  knew,  that,  even  if  her  husband  heard  it,  he  yet  could 
not  reach  her  in  time;  she  saw  that  while  the  beast  listened 
he  would  not  gnaw, — and  this  she  felt  directly,  when  the 
rough,  sharp,  and  multiplied  stings  of  his  tongue  retouched 
her  arm.  Again  her  lips  opened  by  instinct,  but  the  sound 


CIRCUMSTANCE  25 

that  issued  thence  came  by  reason.  She  had  heard  that  music 
charmed  wild  beasts — just  this  point  between  life  and  death 
intensified  every  faculty — and  when  she  opened  her  lips 
the  third  time  it  was  not  for  shrieking,  but  for  singing. 

A  little  thread  of  melody  stole  out,'  a  rill  of  tremulous 
motion;  it  was  the  cradle-song  with  which  she  rocked  her 
baby — how  could  she  sing  that?  And  then  she  remembered 
the  baby  sleeping  rosily  on  the  long  settee  before  the  fire; 
the  father  cleaning  his  gun,  with  one  foot  on  the  green 
wooden  rundle;  the  merry  light  from  the  chimney  dancing 
out  and  through  the  room,  on  the  rafters  of  the  ceiling  with 
their  tassels  of  onions  and  herbs,  on  the  log  walls  painted 
with  lichens  and  festooned  with  apples,  on  the  king's-arm 
slung  across  the  shelf  with  the  old  pirate's-cutlass,  on  the 
snow-pile  of  the  bed,  and  on  the  great  brass  clock, — dancing, 
too,  and  lingering  on  the  baby,  with  his  fringed  gentian  eyes, 
his  chubby  fists  clenched  on  the  pillow,  and  his  fine  breezy 
hair  fanning  with  the  motion  of  his  father's  foot.  All  this 
struck  her  in  one,  and  made  a  sob  of  her  breath,  and  she 
ceased. 

Immediately  the  long  red  tongue  was  thrust  forth  again. 
Before  it  touched,  a  song  sprang  to  her  lips,  a  wild  sea- 
song,  such  as  some  sailor  might  be  singing  far  out  on  track 
less  blue  water  that  night,  the  shrouds  whistling  with  frost 
and  the  sheets  glued  in  ice — a  song  with  the  wind  in  its 
burden  and  the  spray  in  its  chorus.  The  monster  raised  his 
head  and  flared  the  fiery  eyeballs  upon  her,  then  fretted  the 
imprisoned  claws  a  moment  and  was  quiet;  only  the  breath 
like  the  vapor  from  some  hell-pit  still  swathed  her.  Her 
voice,  at  first  faint  and  fearful,  gradually  lost  its  quaver,  grew 
under  her  control  and  subject  to  her  modulation;  it  rose  on 
long  swells,  it  fell  in  subtile  cadences,  now  and  then  its  tones 
pealed  out  like  bells  from  distant  belfries  on  fresh  sonorous 
mornings.  She  sung  the  song  through,  and,  wondering  lest 
his  name  of  Indian  Devil  were  not  his  true  name,  and  if  he 
would  not  detect  her,  she  repeated  it.  Once  or  twice  now, 
indeed,  the  beast  stirred  uneasily,  turned,  and  made  the 
bough  sway  at  his  movement.  As  she  ended,  he  snapped  his 
jaws  together,  and  tore  away  the  fettered  member,  curling  it 


26     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

under  him  with  a  snarl, — when  she  burst  into  the  gayest  reel 
himself  from  birch  and  cherry-wood;  how  many  a  time  she 
had  heard  her  husband  play  it  on  the  homely  fiddle  made  by 
himself  from  birch  and  cherry-wood;  how  many  a  time  she 
had  seen  it  danced  on  the  floor  of  their  one  room,  to  the  patter 
of  wooden  clogs  and  the  rustle  of  homespun  petticoat;  how 
many  a  time  she  had  danced  it  herself; — and  did  she  not 
remember  once,  as  they  joined  clasps  for  right-hands-round, 
how  it  had  lent  its  gay,  bright  measure  to  her  life?  And 
here  she  was  singing  it  alone,  in  the  forest,  at  midnight,  to  a 
wild  beast!  As  she  sent  her  voice  trilling  up  and  down  its 
quick  oscillations  between  joy  and  pain,  the  creature  who 
grasped  her  uncurled  his  paw  and  scratched  the  bark  from 
the  bough ;  she  must  vary  the  spell,  and  her  voice  spun  leap 
ing  along  the  projecting  points  of  tune  of  a  hornpipe.  Still 
singing,  she  felt  herself  twisted  about  with  a  low  growl  and 
a  lifting  of  the  red  lip  from  the  glittering  teeth;  she  broke 
the  hornpipe's  thread,  and  commenced  unravelling  a  lighter, 
livelier  thing,  an  Irish  jig.  Up  and  down  and  round  about 
her  voice  flew,  the  beast  threw  back  his  head  so  that  the 
diabolical  face  fronted  hers,  and  the  torrent  of  his  breath 
prepared  her  for  his  feast  as  the  anaconda  slimes  his  prey. 
Frantically  she  darted  from  tune  to  tune;  his  restless  move 
ments  followed  her.  She  tired  herself  with  dancing  and 
vivid  national  airs,  growing  feverish  and  singing  spasmodi 
cally  as  she  felt  her  horrid  tomb  yawning  wider.  Touching 
in  this  manner  all  the  slogan  and  keen  clan  cries,  the  beast 
moved  again,  but  only  to  lay  the  disengaged  paw  across  her 
with  heavy  satisfaction.  She  did  not  dare  to  pause;  through 
the  clear  cold  air,  the  frosty  starlight,  she  sang.  If  there 
were  yet  any  tremor  in  the  tone,  it  was  not  fear — she  had 
learned  the  secret  of  sound  at  last;  nor  could  it  be  chill — 
far  too  high  a  fervor  throbbed  her  pulses ;  it  was  nothing  but 
the  thought  of  the  log-house  and  of  what  might  be  passing 
within  it.  She  fancied  the  baby  stirring  in  his  sleep  and 
moving  his  pretty  lips — her  husband  rising  and  opening  the 
door,  looking  out  after  her,  and  wondering  at  her  absence. 
She  fancied  the  light  pouring  through  the  chink  and  then  shut 
in  again  with  all  the  safety  and  comfort  and  joy,  her  husband 


CIRCUMSTANCE  27 

taking  down  the  fiddle  and  playing  lightly  with  his  head  in 
clined,  playing  while  she  sang,  while  she  sang  for  her  life 
to  an  Indian  Devil.  Then  she  knew  he  was  fumbling  for 
and  finding  some  shining  fragment  and  scoring  it  down  the 
yellowing  hair,  and  unconsciously  her  voice  forsook  the  wild 
war-tunes  and  drifted  into  the  half-gay,  half-melancholy 
Rosin  the  Bow. 

Suddenly  she  woke  pierced  with  a  pang,  and  the  daggered 
tooth  penetrating  her  flesh — dreaming  of  safety,  she  had 
ceased  singing  and  lost  it.  The  beast  had  regained  the  use 
of  all  his  limbs,  and  now,  standing  and  raising  his  back, 
bristling  and  foaming,  with  sounds  that  would  have  been 
like  hisses  but  for  their  deep  and  fearful  sonority,  he  with 
drew  step  by  step  toward  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  still  with  his 
flaming  balls  upon  her.  She  was  all  at  once  free,  on  one  end 
of  the  bough,  twenty  feet  from  the  ground.  She  did  not 
measure  the  distance,  but  rose  to  drop  herself  down,  careless 
of  any  death,  so  that  it  were  not  this.  Instantly,  as  if  he 
scanned  her  thoughts,  the  creature  bounded  forward  with  a 
yell  and  caught  her  again  in  his  dreadful  hold.  It  might 
be  that  he  was  not  greatly  famished;  for,  as  she  suddenly 
flung  up  her  voice  again,  he  settled  himself  composedly  on  the 
bough,  still  clasping  her  with  invincible  pressure  to  his 
rough,  ravenous  breast,  and  listening  in  a  fascination  to  the 
sad,  strange  U-la-lu  that  now  moaned  forth  in  loud,  hollow 
tones  above  him.  He  half  closed  his  eyes,  and  sleepily  re 
opened  and  shut  them  again. 

What  rending  pains  were  close  at  hand!  Death  I  and 
what  a  death!  worse  than  any  other  that  is  to  be  named! 
Water,  be  it  cold  or  warm,  that  which  buoys  up  blue  ice 
fields,  or  which  bathes  tropical  coasts  with  currents  of  balmy 
bliss,  is  yet  a  gentle  conqueror,  kisses  as  it  kills,  and  draws 
you  down  gently  through  darkening  fathoms  to  its  heart. 
Death  at  the  sword  is  the  festival  of  trumpet  anl  bugle  and 
banner,  with  glory  ringing  out  around  you  and  distant  hearts 
thrilling  through  yours.  No  gnawing  disease  can  bring  such 
hideous  end  as  this;  for  that  is  a  fiend  bred  of  your  own 
flesh,  and  this — is  it  a  fiend,  this  living  lump  of  appetites? 
What  dread  comes  with  the  thought  of  perishing  in  flames! 


28     THE  GREAT  MODERN^  AMERICAN  STORIES 

but  fire,  let  it  leap  and  hiss  never  so  hotly,  is  something  too' 
remote,  too  alien,  to  inspire  us  with  such  loathly  horror  as  a 
wild  beast;  if  it  have  a  life,  that  life  is  too  utterly  beyond  our 
comprehension.  Fire  is  not  half  ourselves;  as  it  devours, 
arouses  neither  hatred  nor  disgust ;  is  not  to  be  known  by  the 
strength  of  our  lower  natures  let  loose;  ,does  not  drip  our 
blood  into  our  faces  from  foaming  chaps,  nor  mouth  nor 
snarl  above  us  with  vitality.  Let  us  be  ended  by  fire,  and 
we  are  ashes,  for  the  winds  to  bear,  the  leaves  to  cover ;  let  us 
be  ended  by  wild  beasts,  and  the  base,  cursed  thing  howls 
with  us  forever  through  the  forest.  All  this  she  felt  as  she 
charmed  him,  and  what  force  it  lent  to  her  song  God  knows. 
If  her  voice  should  fail !  If  the  damp  and  cold  should  give 
her  any  fatal  hoarseness!  If  all  the  silent  powers  of  the 
forest  did  not  conspire  to  help  her !  The  dark,  hollow  night 
rose  indifferently  over  her;  the  wide,  cold  air  breathed  rudely 
past  her,  lifted  her  wet  hair  and  blew  it  down  again;  the 
great  boughs  swung  with  a  ponderous  strength,  now  and  then 
clashed  their  iron  lengths  together  and  shook  off  a  sparkle  of 
icy  spears  or  some  long-lain  weight  of  snow  from  their  heavy 
shadows.  The  green  depths  were  utterly  cold  and  silent  and 
stern.  These  beautiful  haunts  that  all  the  summer  were  hers 
and  rejoiced  to  share  with  her  their  bounty,  these  heavens 
that  had  yielded  their  largess,  these  stems  that  had  thrust  their 
blossoms  into  her  hands,  all  these  friends  of  three  moons 
ago  forgot  her  now  and  knew  her  no  longer. 

Feeling  her  desolation,  wild,  melancholy,  forsaken  songs 
rose  thereon  from  that  frightful  aerie — weeping,  wailing 
tunes,  that  sob  among  the  people  from  age  to  age,  and  over 
flow  with  otherwise  unexpressed  sadness — all  rude,  mourn 
ful  ballads — old  tearful  strains,  that  Shakspeare  heard  the 
vagrants  sing,  and  that  rise  and  fall  like  the  wind  and  tide — 
sailor-songs,  to  be  heard  only  in  lone  mid-watches  beneath  the 
moon  and  stars — ghastly  rhyming  romances,  such  as  that 
famous  one  of  the  Lady  Margaret,  when 

She  slipped  on  her  gown  of  green 

A  piece  below  the  knee, — 
And  'twas  all  a  long,  cold  winter's  night 

A  dead  corse  followed  she. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  29 

Still  the  beast  lay  with  closed  eyes,  yet  never  relaxing  his 
grasp.  Once  a  half-whine  of  enjoyment  escaped  him, — he 
fawned  his  fearful  head  upon  her;  once  he  scored  her  cheek 
with  his  tongue :  savage  caresses  that  hurt  like  wounds.  How 
weary  she  was !  and  yet  how  terribly  awake !  How  fuller  and 
fuller  of  dismay  grew  the  knowledge  that  she  was  only  pro 
longing  her  anguish  and  playing  with  death!  How  appal 
ling  the  thought  that  with  her  voice  ceased  her  existence !  Yet 
she  could  not  sing  forever;  her  throat  was  dry  and  hard,  her 
very  breath  was  a  pain,  her  mouth  was  hotter  than  any  des 
sert-worn  pilgrim's — if  she  could  but  drop  upon  her  burning 
tongue  one  atom  of  the  ice  that  glittered  about  her! — but 
both  of  her  arms  were  pinioned  in  the  giant's  vice.  She  re 
membered  the  winding-sheet,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
shivered  with  spiritual  fear.  Was  it  hers?  She  asked  her 
self,  as  she  sang,  what  sins  she  had  committed,  what  life 
she  had  led,  to  find  her  punishment  so  soon  and  in  these 
pangs,  and  then  she  sought  eagerly  for  some  reason  why  her 
husband  was  not  up  and  abroad  to  find  her.  He  failed  her 
— her  one  sole  hope  in  life — and  without  being  aware  of  it 
her  voice  forsook  the  songs  of  suffering  and  sorrow  for  old 
Covenanting  hymns, — hymns  with  which  her  mother  had 
lulled  her,  which  the  class-leader  pitched  in  the  chimney- 
corners — grand  and  sweet  Methodist  hymns,  brimming  with 
melody  and  with  all  fantastic  involutions  of  tune  to  suit  that 
ecstatic  worship,  hymns  full  of  the  beauty  of  holiness,  stead 
fast,  relying,  sanctified  by  the  salvation  they  had  lent  to 
those  in  worse  extremity  than  hers,  for  they  had  found  them 
selves  in  the  grasp  of  hell,  while  she  was  but  in  the  jaws  of 
death.  Out  of  this  strange  music,  peculiar  to  one  character 
of  faith,  and  than  which  there  is  none  more  beautiful  in  its 
degree  nor  owning  a  more  potent  sway  of  sound,  her  voice 
soared  into  the  glorified  chants  of  churches.  What  to  her 
was  death  by  cold  or  famine  or  wild  beasts?  "Though  He 
slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  in  Him,"  she  sang.  High  and  clear 
through  the  frore  fair  night,  the  level  moonbeams  splinter 
ing  in  the  wood,  the  scarce  glints  of  stars  in  the  shadowy 
roof  of  branches,  these  sacred  anthems  rose — rose  as  a  hope 
from  despair,  as  some  snowy  spray  of  flower-bells  from 


30     THE  GREAT  MODERN^  AMERICAN  STORIES 

blackest  mould.  Was  she  not  in  God's  hands?  Did  not 
the  world  swing  at  His  will?  If  this  were  in  His  great  plan 
of  Providence,  was  it  not  best,  and  should  she  not  accept 
it? 

"He  is  the  Lord  our  God;  His  judgments  are  in  all  the 
earth." 

Oh,  sublime  faith  of  our  fathers,  where  utter  self-sacrifice 
alone  was  true  love,  the  fragrance  of  whose  unrequired  sub 
jection  was  pleasant  as  that  of  golden  censers  swung  in 
purple-vapored  chancels ! 

Never  ceasing  in  the  rhythm  of  her  thoughts,  articulated 
in  music  as  they  thronged,  the  memory  of  her  first  com 
munion  flashed  over  her.  Again  she  was  in  that  distant  place 
on  that  sweet  spring  morning.  Again  the  congregation  rustled 
out,  and  the  few  remained,  and  she  trembled  to  find  herself 
among  them.  How  well  she  remembered  the  devout,  quiet 
faces,  too  accustomed  to  the  sacred  feast  to  glow  with  their 
inner  joy,  how  well  the  snowy  linen  at  the  altar,  the  silver 
vessels  slowly  and  silently  shifting,  and  as  the  cup  ap 
proached  and  passed,  how  the  sense  of  delicious  perfume 
stole  in  and  heightened  the  transport  of  her  prayer,  and  she 
had  seemed,  looking  up  through  the  windows  where  the  sky 
soared  blue  in  constant  freshness,  to  feel  all  heaven's  balms 
dripping  from  the  portals,  and  to  scent  the  lilies  of  eternal 
peace!  Perhaps  another  would  not  have  felt  so  much 
ecstasy  as  satisfaction  on  that  occasion;  but  it  is  a  true,  if  a 
later  disciple,  who  had  said,  "The  Lord  bestoweth  his  bless 
ings  there,  where  he  findeth  the  vessels  empty."  "And  does 
it  need  the  walls  of  a  church  to  renew  my  communion?"  she 
asked.  "Does  not  every  moment  stand  a  temple  four-square 
to  God?  And  in  that  morning,  with  its  buoyant  sunlight, 
was  I  any  dearer  to  the  Heart  of  the  World  than  now?"  "My 
beloved  is  mine,  and  I  am  his,"  she  sang  over  and  over  again, 
with  all  varied  inflection  and  profuse  tune.  How  gently  all 
the  winter- wrapt  things  bent  toward  her  then !  Into  what  re 
lation  with  her  had  they  grown !  How  this  common  depend 
ence  was  the  spell  of  their  intimacy!  How  at  one  with 
Nature  had  she  become!  How  all  the  night  and  the  silence 
and  the  forest  seemed  to  hold  its  breath,  and  to  send  its 


CIRCUMSTANCE  31 

soul  up  to  God  in  her  singing!  It  was  no  longer  despond 
ency,  that  singing.  It  was  neither  prayer  nor  petition.  She 
had  left  imploring  "How  long  wilt  Thou  forget  me,  O 
Lord?,"  "Lighten  mine  eyes,  lest  I  sleep  the  sleep  of  death,"1 
"For  in  death  there  is  no  remembrance  of  Thee,"  with 
countless  other  such  fragments  of  supplication.  She  cried 
rather,  "Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death,  I  will  fear  no  evil,  for  Thou  art  with  me; 
Thy  rod  and  Thy  staff,  they  comfort  me";  and  lingered,  and 
repeated,  and  sang  again,  "I  shall  be  satisfied,  when  I  awake, 
with  Thy  likeness." 

Then  she  thought  of  the  Great  Deliverance,  when  He  drew 
her  up  out  of  many  waters,  and  the  flashing  old  psalm  pealed 
forth  triumphantly: 

The  Lord  descended  from  above,  and  bow'd  the  heavens  hie: 
And  underneath  his  feet  he  cast  the  darkness  of  the  skie. 
On  cherubs  and  on  cherubins  full  royally  he  road: 
And  on  the  wings  of  all  the  winds  came  flying  all  abroad. 

She  forgot  how  recently,  and  with  what  a  strange  pity  for 
her  own  shapeless  form  that  was  to  be,  she  quaintly  sung 

Oh,  lovely  appearance  of  death! 
.   What  sight  upon  earth  is  so  fair? 
Not  all  the  gay  pageants  that  breathe 
Can  with  a  dead  body  compare! 

She  remembered  instead,  "In  Thy  presence  is  fulness  of  joy; 
at  Thy  right  hand  there  are  pleasures  f orevermore" ;  and, 
"God  will  redeem  my  soul  from  the  power  of  the  grave:  for 
He  shall  receive  me";  "He  will  swallow  up  death  in  victory," 
Not  once  now  did  she  say,  "Lord  how  long  wilt  Thou  look 
on?  Rescue  my  soul  from  their  destructions,  my  darling 
from  the  lions,"  for  she  knew  that  "the  young  lions  roar 
after  their  prey  and  seek  their  meat  from  God."  "O  Lord, 
Thou  preservest  man  and  beast!"  she  said. 

She  had  no  comfort  or  consolation  in  this  season,  such  as 
sustained  the  Christian  martyrs  in  the  amphitheatre.  She 
was  not  dying  for  her  faith,  there  were  no  palms  in  heaven 
for  her  to  wave — but  how  many  a  time  had  she  declared, 
"I  had  rather  be  a  doorkeeper  in  the  house  of  my  God,  than 


32     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

to  dwell  in  the  tents  of  wickedness!"  And  as  the  broad  rays 
here  and  there  broke  through  the  dense  covert  of  shade 
and  lay  in  rivers  of  lustre  on  crystal  sheathing  and  frozen 
fretting  of  trunk  and  limb  and  on  the  great  spaces  of  re 
fraction,  they  builded  up  visibly  that  house,  the  shining  city 
on  the  hill;  and  singing,  "Beautiful  for  situation,  the  joy  of 
the  whole  earth,  is  Mount  Zion,  on  the  sides  of  the  North,  the 
city  of  the  Great  King,"  her  vision  climbed  to  that  higher 
picture  where  the  angel  shows  the  dazzling  thing,  the  holy 
Jerusalem  descending  out  of  heaven  from  God,  with  its 
splendid  battlements  and  gates  of  pearls,  and  its  foundations 
— the  eleventh  a  jacinth,  the  twelfth  an  amethyst — with  its 
great  white  throne,  and  the  rainbow  round  about  it,  in  sight 
like  urito  an  emerald — "And  there  shall  be  no  night  there, 
for  the  Lord  God  giveth  them  light,"  she  sang. 

What  whisper  of  dawn  now  rustled  through  the  wilderness  ? 
How  the  night  was  passing!  And  still  the  beast  crouched 
upon  the  bough,  changing  only  the  posture  of  his  head  that 
again  he  might  command  her  with  those  charmed  eyes.  Half 
their  fire  was  gone — she  could  almost  have  released  herself 
from  his  custody — yet,  had  she  stirred,  no  one  knows  what 
malevolent  instinct  might  have  dominated  anew.  But  of  that 
she  did  not  dream;  long  ago  stripped  of  any  expectation,  she 
was  experiencing  in  her  divine  rapture  how  mystically  true 
it  is  that  "he  that  dwelleth  in  the  secret  place  of  the  Most 
High  shall  abide  under  the  shadow  of  the  Almighty." 

Slow  clarion  cries  now  wound  from  the  distance  as  the 
cocks  caught  the  intelligence  of  day  and  reechoed  it  faintly 
from  farm  to  farm — sleepy  sentinels  of  night,  sounding  the 
foe's  invasion,  and  translating  that  dim  intuition  to  ringing 
notes  of  warning.  Still  she  chanted  on.  A  remote  crash  of 
brushwood  told  of  some  other  beast  on  his  depredations,  or 
some  night-belated  traveller  groping  his  way  through  the 
narrow  path.  Still  she  chanted  on.  The  far,  faint  echoes  of 
the  chanticleers  died  into  distance,  the  crashing  of  the 
branches  grew  nearer.  No  wild  beast  that,  but  a  man's  step, 
a  man's  form  in  the  moonlight,  stalwart  and  strong,  on 
one  arm  slept  a  little  child,  in  the  other  hand  he  held  his 
gun.  Still  she  chanted  on. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  33 

Perhaps,  when  her  husband  last  looked  forth,  he  was  half 
ashamed  to  find  what  a  fear  he  felt  for  her.  He  knew  she 
would  never  leave  the  child  so  long  but  for  some  direst  need, 
— and  yet  he  may  have  laughed  at  himself,  as  he  lifted  and 
wrapped  it  with  awkward  care,  and,  loading  his  gun  and 
strapping  on  his  horn,  opened  the  door  again  and  closed  it 
behind  him,  going  out  and  plunging  into  the  darkness  and 
dangers  of  the  forest.  He  was  more  singularly  alarmed  than 
he  would  have  been  willing  to  acknowledge;  as  he  had  sat 
with  his  bow  hovering  over  the  strings,  he  had  half  believed 
to  hear  her  voice  mingling  gayly  with  the  instrument,  till  he 
paused  and  listened  if  she  were  not  about  to  lift  the  latch  and 
enter.  As  he  drew  nearer  the  heart  of  the  forest,  that  in 
timation  of  melody  seemed  to  grow  more  actual,  to  take  body 
and  breath,  to  come  and  go  on  long  swells  and  ebbs  of  the 
night-breeze,  to  increase  with  tune  and  words,  till  a  strange, 
shrill  singing  grew  even  clearer,  and,  as  he  stepped  into  an 
open  space  of  moonbeams,  far  up  in  the  branches,  rocked  by 
the  wind,  and  singing,  "How  beautiful  upon  the  mountains 
are  the  feet  of  him  that  bringeth  good  tidings,  that  publisheth 
peace,"  he  saw  his  wife — his  wife — but,  great  God  in 
heaven!  how?  Some  mad  exclamation  escaped  him,  but 
without  diverting  her.  The  child  knew  the  singing  voice, 
though  never  heard  before  in  that  unearthly  key,  and  turned 
toward  it  through  the  veiling  dreams.  With  a  celerity  almost 
instantaneous,  it  lay,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  on  the  ground 
at  the  father's  feet,  while  his  gun  was  raised  to  his  shoulder 
and  levelled  at  the  monster  covering  his  wife  with  shaggy 
form  and  naming  gaze — his  wife  so  ghastly  white,  so  rigid, 
so  stained  with  blood,  her  eyes  so  fixedly  bent  above,  and  her 
lips,  that  had  indurated  into  the  chiselled  pallor  of  marble, 
parted  only  with  that  flood  of  solemn  song. 

I  do  not  know  if  it  were  the  mother-instinct  that  for  a 
moment  lowered  her  eyes — those  eyes,  so  lately  riveted  on 
heaven,  now  suddenly  seeing  all  life-long  bliss  possible.  A 
thrill  of  joy  pierced  and  shivered  through  her  like  a  weapon, 
her  voice  trembled  in  its  course,  her  glance  lost  its  steady 
strength,  fever-flushes  chased  each  other  over  her  face,  yet  she 
never  once  ceased  chanting.  She  was  quite  aware  that  if 


34     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

her  husband  shot  now  the  ball  must  pierce  her  body  before 
reaching  any  vital  part  of  the  beast — and  yet  better  that? 
death,  by  his  hand,  than  the  other.  But  this  her  husband 
also  knew,  and  he  remained  motionless,  just  covering  the 
creature  with  the  sight.  He  dared  not  fire  lest  some  wound 
not  mortal  should  break  the  spell  exercised  by  her  voice, 
and  the  beast,  enraged  with  pain,  should  rend  her  in  atoms; 
moreover,  the  light  was  too  uncertain  for  his  aim.  So  he 
waited.  Now  and  then  he  examined  his  gun  to  see  if  the 
damp  were  injuring  its  charge,  now  and  then  he  wiped  the 
great  drops  from  his  forehead.  Again  the  cocks  crowed  with 
the  passing  hour — the  last  time  they  were  heard  on  that 
night.  Cheerful  home  sound  then,  how  full  of  safety  and  all 
comfort  and  rest  it  seemed!  What  sweet  morning  incidents 
of  sparkling  fire  and  sunshine,  of  gay  household  bustle, 
shining  dresser,  and  cooing  baby,  of  steaming  cattle  in  the 
yard,  and  brimming  milk-pails  at  the  door!  What  pleasant 
voices,  what  laughter,  what  security!  And  here — 

Now  as  she  sang  on  in  the  slow,  endless,  infinite  moments, 
the  fervent  vision  of  God's  peace  was  gone.  Just  as  the  grave 
had  lost  its  sting,  she  was  snatched  back  again  into  the  arms 
of  earthly  hope.  In  vain  she  tried  to  sing,  "There  remaineth 
a  rest  for  the  people  of  God" — her  eyes  trembled  on  her 
husband's,  and  she  could  think  only  of  him,  and  of  the  child, 
and  of  happiness  that  yet  might  be,  but  with  what  a  dreadful 
gulf  of  doubt  between !  She  shuddered  now  in  the  suspense ; 
all  calm  forsook  her;  she  was  tortured  with  dissolving  heats 
or  frozen  with  icy  blasts;  her  face  contracted,  growing  small 
and  pinched;  her  voice  was  hoarse  and  sharp — every  tone 
cut  like  a  knife — the  notes  became  heavy  to  lift — withheld 
by  some  hostile  pressure — impossible.  One  gasp,  a  con 
vulsive  effort,  and  there  was  silence — she  had  lost  her  voice. 

The  beast  made  a  sluggish  movement — stretched  and 
fawned  like  one  awakening — then,  as  if  he  would  have  yet 
more  of  the  enchantment,  stirred  her  slightly  with  his  muzzle. 
As  he  did  so  a  sidelong  hint  of  the  man  standing  below 
with  the  raised  gun  smote  him;  he  sprung  round  furiously, 
and,  seizing  his  prey,  was  about  to  leap  into  some  unknown 
airy  den  of  the  top-most  branches  now  waving  to  the  slow 


CIRCUMSTANCE  35 

dawn.  The  late  moon  had  rounded  through  the  sky  so  that 
her  gleam  at  last  fell  full  upon  the  bough  with  fairy  frost 
ing;  the  wintry  morning  light  did  not  yet  penetrate  the  gloom. 
The  woman,  suspended  in  mid-air  an  instant,  cast  only  one 
agonized  glance  beneath,  but  across  and  through  it,  ere  the 
lids  could  fall,  shot  a  withering  sheet  of  flame — a  rifle-crack, 
half  heard,  was  lost  in  the  terrible  yell  of  desperation  that 
bounded  after  it  and  filled  her  ears  with  savage  echoes,  and 
in  the  wide  arc  of  some  eternal  descent  she  was  falling — 
but  the  beast  fell  under  her. 

I  think  that  the  moment  following  must  have  been  too 
sacred  for  us,  and  perhaps  the  three  have  no  special  in 
terest  again  till  they  issue  from  the  shadows  of  the  wilder 
ness  upon  the  white  hills  that  skirt  their  home!  The  father 
carries  the  child  hushed  again  to  slumber,  the  mother  follows 
with  no  such  feeble  step  as  might  be  anticipated,  and  as 
they  slowly  climb  the  steep  under  the  clear  gray  sky  and  the 
paling  morning  star,  she  stops  to  gather  a  spray  of  the  red- 
rose  berries  or  a  feathey  tuft  of  dead  grasses  for  the  chim 
ney-piece  of  the  log-house,  or  a  handful  of  brown  ones  for 
the  child's  play, — and  of  these  quiet,  happy  folk  you  would 
scarcely  dream  how  lately  they  had  stolen  from  under  the 
banner  and  encampment  of  the  great  King  Death.  The  hus 
band  proceeds  a  step  or  two  in  advance;  the  wife  lingers  over 
a  singular  foot-print  in  the  snow,  stoops  and  examines  it, 
then  looks  up  with  a  hurried  word.  Her  husband  stands 
alone  on  the  hill,  his  arms  folded  across  the  babe,  his  gun 
fallen — stands  defined  against  the  pallid  sky  like  a  bronze. 
What  is  there  in  their  home,  lying  below  and  yellowing  in. 
the  light,  to  fix  him  with  such  a  stare?  She  springs  to  his 
side.  There  is  no  home  there.  The  log-house,  the  barns,  the 
neighboring  farms,  the  fences,  are"  all  blotted  out  and  mingled 
in  one  smoking  ruin.  Desolation  and  death  were  indeed 
there,  and  beneficence  and  life  in  the  forest.  Tomahawk  and 
scalping-knife,  descending  during  that  night,  had  left  be 
hind  them  only  this  work  of  their  accomplished  hatred  and 
one  subtle  foot-print  in  the  snow. 

For  the  rest — the  world  was  all  before  them,  where  to 
choose. 


THE  CELEBRATED  JUMPING  FROG 
OF  CALAVERAS  COUNTY  * 

BY  MARK  TWAIN 

IN  compliance  with  the  request  of  a  friend  of  mine,  who 
wrote  me  from  the  East,  I  called  on  good-natured,  garru 
lous  old  Simon  Wheeler,  and  inquired  after  my  friend's 
friend,  Leonidas  W.  Smiley,  as  requested  to  do,  and  I  here 
unto  append  the  result.  I  have  a  lurking  suspicion  that 
Leonidas  W.  Smiley  is  a  myth;  that  my  friend  never  knew 
such  a  personage;  and  that  he  only  conjectured  that,  if  I 
asked  old  Wheeler  about  him,  it  would  remind  him  of  his 
infamous  Jim  Smiley,  and  he  would  go  to  work  and  bore  me 
nearly  to  death  with  some  infernal  reminiscence  of  him  as 
long  and  tedious  as  it  should  be  useless  to  me.  If  that  was 
the  design,  it  certainly  succeeded. 

I  found  Simon  Wheeler  dozing  comfortably  by  the  bar 
room  stove  of  the  old,  dilapidated  tavern  in  the  ancient  min 
ing  camp  of  Angel's,  and  I  noticed  that  he  was  fat  and  bald- 
headed,  and  had  an  expression  of  winning  gentleness  and 
simplicity  upon  his  tranquil  countenance.  He  roused  up  and 
gave  me  good-day.  I  told  him  a  friend  of  mine  had  com 
missioned  me  to  make  some  inquiries  about  a  cherished 
companion  of  his  boyhood  named  Leonidas  W.  Smiley — Rev. 
Leonidas  W.  Smiley — a  young  minister  of  the  Gospel,  who 
he  had  heard  was  at  one  time  a  resident  of  Angel's  Camp. 
I  added,  that,  if  Mr.  Wheeler  could  tell  me  anything  about 
this  Rev.  Leonidas  W.  Smiley,  I  would  feel  under  many 
obligations  to  him. 

Simon  Wheeler  backed  me  into  a  corner  and  blockaded  me 
there  with  his  chair,  and  then  sat  me  down  and  reeled  off 
the  monotonous  narrative  which  follows  this  paragraph.  He 
never  smiled,  he  never  frowned,  he  never  changed  his  voice 

*  From  the  collected  works  of  Mark  Twain,  published  by  Harper 
&  Brothers. 

36 


THE  CELEBRATED  JUMPING  FROG          37 

from  the  gentle-flowing  key  to  which  he  tuned  the  initial 
sentence,  he  never  betrayed  the  slightest  suspicion  of  enthu 
siasm;  but  all  through  the  interminable  narrative  there  ran 
a  vein  of  impressive  earnestness  and  sincerity,  which  showed 
me  plainly  that,  so  far  from  his  imagining  that  there  was 
anything  ridiculous  or  funny  about  his  story,  he  regarded  it 
as  a  really  important  matter,  and  admitted  its  two  heroes 
as  men  of  transcendent  genius  in  finesse.  To  me,  the 
spectacle  of  a  man  drifting  serenely  along  through  such  a 
queer  yarn  without  ever  smiling,  was  exquisitely  absurd.  As 
I  said  before,  I  asked  him  to  tell  me  what  he  knew  of  Rev. 
Leonidas  W.  Smiley,  and  he  replied  as  follows.  I  let  him 
go  on  in  his  own  way,  and  never  interrupted  him  once: 

There  was  a  feller  here  once  by  the  name  of  Jim  Smiley, 
in  the  winter  of  '49 — or  maybe  it  was  the  spring  of  '50 — I 
don't  recollect  exactly,  somehow,  though  what  makes  me 
think  it  was  one  or  the  other  is  because  I  remember  the  big 
flume  wasn't  finished  when  he  first  came  to  the  camp;  but 
anyway,  he  was  the  curiousest  man  about  always  betting  on 
anything  that  turned  up  you  ever  see,  if  he  could  get  any 
body  to  bet  on  the  other  side;  and  if  he  couldn't,  he'd  change 
sides.  Any  way  that  suited  the  other  man  would  suit  him — 
any  way  just  so's  he  got  a  bet,  he  was  satisfied.  But  still  he 
was  lucky,  uncommon  lucky — he  most  always  come  out  win 
ner.  He  was  always  ready  and  laying  for  a  chance;  there 
couldn't  be  no  solit'ry  thing  mentioned  but  that  feller'd  offer 
to  bet  on  it,  and  take  any  side  you  please,  as  I  was  just  tell 
ing  you.  If  there  was  a  horse-race,  you'd  find  him  flush,  or 
you'd  find  him  busted  at  the  end  of  it;  if  there  was  a  dog 
fight,  he'd  bet  on  it;  if  there  was  a  cat-fight,  he'd  bet  on  it; 
if  there  was  a  chicken-fight,  he'd  bet  on  it;  why,  if  there 
was  two  birds  setting  on  a  fence,  he  would  bet  you  which 
one  would  fly  first;  or  if  there  was  a  camp-meeting,  he  would 
be  there  reg'lar,  to  bet  on  Parson  Walker,  which  he  judged 
to  be  the  best  exhorter  about  here,  and  so  he  was,  too,  and  a 
good  man.  If  he  even  seen  a  straddle-bug  start  to  go  any 
wheres,  he  would  bet  you  how  long  it  would  take  him  to  get 
wherever  he  was  going  to,  and  if  you  took  him  up,  he  would 
foller  that  straddle-bug  to  Mexico  but  what  he  would  find 


38     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

out  where  he  was  bound  for  and  how  long  he  was  on  the 
road.  Lots  of  the  boys  here  has  seen  that  Smiley,  and  can 
tell  you  about  him.  Why,  it  never  made  no  difference  to 
him — he  would  bet  on  anything — the  dangdest  feller.  Par 
son  Walker's  wife  laid  very  sick  once,  for  a  good  while,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  they  warn't  going  to  save  her;  but  one  morn 
ing  he  came  in,  and  Smiley  asked  how  she  was,  and  he  said 
she  was  considerable  better — thank  the  Lord  for  his  inf'nit 
mercy — and  coming  on  so  smart  that,  with  the  blessing  of 
Prov'dence,  she'd  get  well  yet;  and  Smiley,  before  he  thought, 
says,  "Well,  I'll  risk  two-and-a-half  that  she  don't,  anyway." 

Thish-yer  Smiley  had  a  mare — the  boys  called  her  the 
fifteen-minute  nag,  but  that  was  only  in  fun,  you  know,  be 
cause,  of  course,  she  was  faster  than  that — and  he  used  to  win 
money  on  that  horse,  for  all  she  was  so  slow  and  always  had 
the  asthma,  or  the  distemper,  or  the  consumption,  or  some 
thing  of  that  kind.  They  used  to  give  her  two  or  three  hun 
dred  yards  start,  and  then  pass  her  under  way;  but  always  at 
the  fag-end  of  the  race  she'd  get  excited  and  desperate-like, 
and  come  cavorting  and  straddling  up,  and  scattering  her 
legs  around  limber,  sometimes  in  the  air,  and  sometimes  out 
to  one  side  amongst  the  fences,  and  kicking  up  m-o-r-e  dust, 
and  raising  m-o-r-e  racket  with  her  coughing  and  sneezing 
and  blowing  her  nose — and  always  fetch  up  at  the  stand 
just  about  a  neck  ahead,  as  near  as  you  could  cipher  it 
down. 

And  he  had  a  little  small  bull  pup,  that  to  look  at  him 
you'd  think  he  wan't  worth  a  cent  but  to  set  around  and  look 
ornery  and  lay  for  a  chance  to  steal  something.  But  as 
soon  as  money  was  up  on  him,  he  was  a  different  dog;  his 
under- jaw'd  begin  to  stick  out  like  the  fo'castle  of  a  steam 
boat,  and  his  teeth  would  uncover,  and  shine  savage  like  the 
furnaces.  And  a  dog  might  tackle  him,  and  bully-rag  him, 
and  bite  him,  and  throw  him  over  his  shoulder  two  or  three 
times,  and  Andrew  Jackson — which  was  the  name  of  the  pup 
' — Andrew  Jackson  would  never  let  on  but  what  he  was  satis 
fied,  and  hadn't  expected  nothing  else — and  the  bets  being 
doubled  and  doubled  on  the  other  side  all  the  time,  till  the 
money  was  all  up;  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  he  would  grab 


THE  CELEBRATED  JUMPING  FROG          39 

that  other  dog  jest  by  the  j'int  of  his  hind  leg  and  freeze  to 
it — not  claw,  you  understand,  but  only  jest  grip  and  hang 
on  till  they  throwed  up  the  sponge,  if  it  was  a  year.  Smiley 
always  come  out  winner  on  that  pup,  till  he  harnessed  a 
dog  once  that  didn't  have  no  hind  legs,  because  they'd  been 
sawed  off  by  a  circular  saw,  and  when  the  thing  had  gone 
along  far  enough,  and  the  money  was  all  up,  and  he  come 
to  make  a  snatch  for  his  pet  holt,  he  saw  in  a  minute  how 
he'd  been  imposed  on,  and  how  the  other  dog  had  him  in 
the  door,  so  to  speak,  and  he  'peared  surprised,  and  then  he 
looked  sorter  discouraged-like,  and  didn't  try  no  more  to  win 
the  fight,  and  so  he  got  shucked  out  bad.  He  give  Smiley  a 
look,  as  much  to  say  his  heart  was  broke  and  it  was  his 
fault  for  putting  up  a  dog  that  hadn't  no  hind  legs  for  him 
to  take  holt  of,  which  was  his  main  dependence  in  a  fight, 
and  then  he  limped  off  a  piece  and  laid  down  and  died. 
It  was  a  good  pup,  was  that  Andrew  Jackson,  and  would 
have  made  a  name  for  hisself  if  he'd  lived,  for  the  stuff  was 
in  him,  and  he  had  genius — I  know  it,  because  he  hadn't 
no  opportunities  to  speak  of,  and  it  don't  stand  to  reason 
that  a  dog  could  make  such  a  fight  as  he  could  under  them 
circumstances,  if  he  hadn't  no  talent.  It  always  makes  me 
feel  sorry  when  I  think  of  that  last  fight  of  his'n,  and  the  way 
it  turned  out. 

Well,  thish-yer  Smiley  had  rat-tarriers,  and  chicken-cocks, 
and  tom-cats,  and  all  them  kind  of  things,  till  you  couldn't 
rest,  and  you  couldn't  fetch  nothing  for  him  to  bet  on  but 
he'd  match  you.  He  ketched  a  frog  one  day,  and  took  him 
home,  and  said  he  cal'klated  to  edercate  him;  and  so  he 
never  done  nothing  for  these  three  months  but  set  in  his  back 
yard  and  learn  that  frog  to  jump.  And  you  bet  you  he  did 
learn  him,  too.  He'd  give  him  a  little  punch  behind,  and 
the  next  minute  you'd  see  that  frog  whirling  in  the  air  like 
a  doughnut — see  him  turn  one  summerset,  or  maybe  a 
couple,  if  he  got  a  good  start,  and  come  down  flat-footed  and 
all  right,  like  a  cat.  He  got  him  up  so  in  the  matter  of  catch 
ing  flies,  and  kept  him  in  practice  so  constant,  that  he'd  nai] 
a  fly  every  time  as  far  as  he  could  see  him.  Smiley  said  all 
a  frog  wanted  was  education,  and  he  could  do  most  any- 


40     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

thing — and  I  believe  him.  Why,  I've  seen  him  set  Dan'l 
Webster  down  here  on  this  floor — Dan'l  Webster  was  the 
name  of  the  frog — and  sing  out,  "Flies,  Dan'l,  flies!"  and 
quicker'n  you  could  wink,  he'd  spring  straight  up,  and  snake 
a  fly  off' n  the  counter  there,  and  flop  down  on  the  floor  again 
as  solid  as  a  gob  of  mud,  and  fall  to  scratching  the  side  of  his 
head  with  his  hind  foot  as  indifferent  as  if  he  hadn't  no  idea 
he's  been  doin'  any  more'n  any  frog  might  do.  You  never 
see  a  frog  so  modest  and  straight-for'ard  as  he  was,  for  all 
he  was  so  gifted.  And  when  it  come  to  fair  and  square  jump 
ing  on  the  dead  level,  he  could  get  over  more  ground  at  one 
straddle  than  any  animal  of  his  breed  you  ever  see.  Jump 
ing  on  a  dead  level  was  his  strong  suit,  you  understand ;  and 
when  it  come  to  that,  Smiley  would  ante  up  money  on  him 
as  long  as  he  had  a  red.  Smiley  was  monstrous  proud  of 
his  frog,  and  well  he  might  be,  for  fellers  that  had  traveled 
and  been  everywhere  all  said  he  laid  over  any  frog  that  ever 
they  see. 

Well,  Smiley  kept  the  beast  in  a  little  lattice  box,  and  he 
used  to  fetch  him  downtown  sometimes  and  lay  for  a  bet. 
One  day  a  feller — a  stranger  in  the  camp,  he  was — come 
across  him  with  his  box,  and  says: 

"What  might  it  be  that  you've  got  in  the  box?" 

And  Smiley  says,  sorter  indifferent  like,  "It  might  be  a 
parrot,  or  it  might  be  a  canary,  maybe,  but  it  ain't — it's 
only  just  a  frog." 

An'  the  feller  took  it,  and  looked  at  it  careful,  and  turned 
it  round  this  way  and  that,  and  says,  "H'm — so  'tis.  Well, 
what's  he  good  for?" 

"Well,"  Smiley  says,  easy  and  careless,  "He's  good  enough 
for  one  thing,  I  should  judge — he  can  outjump  ary  frog  in 
Calaveras  county." 

The  feller  took  the  box  again,  and  took  another  long,  par 
ticular  look,  and  give  it  back  to  Smiley,  and  says,  very  de 
liberate,  "Well,  I  don't  see  no  p'ints  about  that  frog  that's 
any  better'n  any  other  frog." 

"Maybe  you  don't,"  Smiley  says.  "Maybe  you  under 
stand  frogs,  and  maybe  you  don't  understand  'em;  maybe 
you've  had  experience,  and  maybe  you  ain't  only  a  amature, 


THE  CELEBRATED  JUMPING  FROG          41 

as  it  were.  Anyways,  I've  got  my  opinion,  and  I'll  risk 
forty  dollars  that  he  can  out  jump  any  frog  in  Calaveras 
county." 

And  the  feller  studied  a  minute,  and  then  says,  kinder 
sad  like,  "Well,  I'm  only  a  stranger  here,  and  I  ain't  got  no 
frog;  but  if  I  had  a  frog,  I'd  bet  you." 

And  then  Smiley  says,  "That's  all  right — that's  all  right 
— if  you'll  hold  my  box  a  minute,  I'll  go  and  get  you  a  frog." 
And  so  the  feller  took  the  box,  and  put  up  his  forty  dollars 
along  with  Smiley's,  and  set  down  to  wait. 

So  he  set  there  a  good  while  thinking  and  thinking  to 
hisself,  and  then  he  got  the  frog  out  and  prized  his  mouth 
open  and  took  a  teaspoon  and  filled  him  full  of  quail  shot — 
filled  him  pretty  near  up  to  his  chin — and  set  him  on  the 
floor.  Smiley  he  went  to  the  swamp  and  slopped  around  in 
the  mud  for  a  long  time,  and  finally  he  ketched  a  frog,  and 
fetched  him  in,  and  give  him  to  this  feller,  and  says : 

"Now,  if  you're  ready,  set  him  alongside  of  Dan'l,  with 
his  fore-paws  just  even  with  Dan'l,  and  I'll  give  the  word." 
Then  he  says,  "One — two — three — jump!"  and  him  and  the 
feller  touched  up  the  frogs  from  behind,  and  the  new  frog 
hopped  off,  but  Dan'l  give  a  heave,  and  hysted  up  his 
shoulders — so — like  a  Frenchman,  but  it  wasn't  no  use — he 
couldn't  budge;  he  was  planted  as  solid  as  an  anvil,  and  he 
couldn't  no  more  stir  than  if  he  was  anchored  out.  Smiley 
was  a  good  deal  surprised,  and  he  was  disgusted  too,  but  he 
didn't  have  no  idea  what  the  matter  was,  of  course. 

The  feller  took  the  money  and  started  away;  and  when  he 
was  going  out  at  the  door,  he  sorter  jerked  his  thumb  over 
his  shoulder — this  way — at  Dan'l,  and  says  again,  very  de 
liberate,  "Well,  /  don't  see  no  p'ints  about  that  frog  that's 
any  better'n  any  other  frog." 

Smiley  he  stood  scratching  his  head  and  looking  down  at 
Dan'l  a  long  time,  and  at  last  he  says,  "I  do  wonder  what  in 
the  nation  that  frog  throw'd  off  for — I  wonder  if  there  ain't 
something  the  matter  with  him — he  'pears  to  look  mighty 
baggy,  somehow."  And  he  ketched  Dan'l  by  the  nap  of  the 
neck,  and  lifted  him  up  and  says,  "Why,  blame  my  cats,  if 
he  don't  weight  five  pounds!"  and  turned  him  upside  down, 


42     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

and  he  belched  out  a  double  handful  of  shot.  And  then  he 
see  how  it  was,  and  he  was  the  maddest  man  —  he  set  the 
frog  down  and  took  out  after  that  feller,  but  he  never  ketched 
him.  And  — 

(Here  Simon  Wheeler  heard  his  name  called  from  the 
front  yard,  and  got  up  to  see  what  was  wanted.)  And  turn 
ing  to  me  as  he  moved  away,  he  said  :  "Just  set  where  you 
are,  stranger,  and  rest  easy  —  I  ain't  going  to  be  gone  a  sec 
ond." 

But,  by  your  leave,  I  did  not  think  that  a  continuation  of 
the  history  of  the  enterprising  vagabond  Jim  Smiley  would 
be  likely  to  afford  me  much  information  concerning  the  Rev. 
Leonidas  W.  Smiley,  and  so  I  started  away. 

At  the  door  I  met  the  sociable  Wheeler  returning,  and  he 
buttonholed  me  and  recommended  : 

"Well,  thish-yer  Smiley  had  a  yeller  one-eyed  cow  that 
didn't  have  no  tail,  only  jest  a  short  stump  like  a  bannanner, 


"Oh,  hang  Smiley  and  his  afflicted  cow!"  I  muttered, 
good-naturedly,  and  bidding  the  old  gentleman  good-day,  I 
departed. 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  * 

BY  HENRY  JAMES 
I 

INTENDING  to  sail  for  America  in  the  early  part  of  June, 
I  determined  to  spend  the  interval  of  six  weeks  in  Eng 
land,  of  which  I  had  dreamed  much  but  as  yet  knew 
nothing.  I  had  formed  in  Italy  and  France  a  resolute  pref 
erence  for  old  inns,  deeming  that  what  they  sometimes  cost 
the  ungratified  body  they  repay  the  delighted  mind.  On  my 
arrival  in  London,  therefore,  I  lodged  at  a  certain  antique 
hostelry  far  to  the  east  of  Temple  Bar,  deep  in  what  I  used 
to  denominate  the  Johnsonian  city.  Here,  on  the  first  even 
ing  of  my  stay,  I  descended  to  the  little  coffee-room  and 
bespoke  my  dinner  of  the  genius  of  decorum,  in  the  person 
of  the  solitary  waiter.  No  sooner  had  I  crossed  the  threshold 
of  this  apartment  than  I  felt  I  had  mown  the  first  swath  in 
my  golden-ripe  crop  of  British  "impressions."  The  coffee- 
room  of  the  Red-Lion,  like  so  many  other  places  and  things 
I  was  destined  to  see  in  England,  seemed  to  have  been  waiting 
for  long  years,  with  just  that  sturdy  sufferance  of  time  written 
on  its  visage,  for  me  to  come  and  gaze,  ravished  but  unamazed. 
The  latent  preparedness  of  the  American  mind  for  even 
the  most  delectable  features  of  English  life  is  a  fact  which  I 
fairly  probed  to  its  depths.  The  roots  of  it  are  so  deeply 
buried  in  the  virgin  soil  of  our  primary  culture,  that,  without 
some  great  upheaval  of  experience,  it  would  be  hard  to  say 
exactly  when  and  where  and  how  it  begins.  It  makes  an 
American's  enjoyment  of  England  an  emotion  more  fatal  and 
sacred  than  his  enjoyment,  say,  of  Italy  or  Spain.  I  had  seen 

*  By  permission  of,  and  by  special  arrangement  with,  Houghton 
Miffiin  Company,  the  authorized  publishers;  and  by  permission  of 
Henry  James. 

43 


44     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

the  coffee-room  of  the  Red-Lion  years  ago,  at  home — at  Sara- 
in  Smollett,  and  Boswell.  It  was  small,  and  subdivided  into 
six  small  compartments  by  a  series  of  perpendicular  screens 
of  mahogany,  something  higher  than  a  man's  stature,  fur 
nished  on  either  side  with  a  narrow  uncushioned  ledge,  de 
nominated  in  ancient  Britain  a  seat.  In  each  of  the  little 
dining-boxes  thus  immutably  constituted  was  a  small  table, 
which  in  crowded  seasons  was  expected  to  accommodate  the 
several  agents  of  a  fourtold  British  hungriness.  .  .  .  On 
the  floor  was  a  Turkey  carpet — as  old  as  the  mahogany, 
almost,  as  the  Bank  of  England,  as  the  Queen — into  which 
the  waiter  in  his  lonely  revolutions  had  trodden  so  many  mas 
sive  soot-flakes  and  drops  of  overflowing  beer,  that  the  glow 
ing  looms  of  Smyrna  would  certainly  not  have  recognized  it. 
To  say  that  I  ordered  my  dinner  of  this  superior  being  would 
be  altogether  to  misrepresent  the  process,  owing  to  which, 
having  dreamed  of  lamb  and  spinach,  and  a  charlotte-russe, 
I  sat  down  in  penitence  to  -a  mutton-chop  and  a  rice  pudding. 
Bracing  my  feet  against  the  cross-beam  of  my  little  oaken 
table,  I  opposed  to  the  mahogany  partition  behind  me  that 
vigorous  dorsal  resistance  which  expresses  the  old-English 
idea  of  repose.  The  sturdy  screen  refused  even  to  creak; 
but  my  poor  Yankee  joints  made  up  the  deficiency.  While 
I  was  waiting  for  my  chop  there  came  into  the  room  a  person 
whom  I  took  to  be  my  sole  fellow-lodger.  He  seemed,  like 
myself,  to  have  submitted  to  proposals  for  dinner;  the  table 
on  the  other  side  of  my  partition  had  been  prepared  to  re 
ceive  him.  He  walked  up  to  the  fire,  exposed  his  back  to  it, 
consulted  his  watch,  and  looked  apparently  out  of  the  win 
dow,  but  really  at  me.  He  was  a  man  of  something  less  than 
middle  age  and  more  than  middle  stature,  though  indeed 
you  would  have  called  him  neither  young  nor  tall.  He  was 
chiefly  remarkable  for  his  exaggerated  leanness.  His  hair, 
very  thin  on  the  summit  of  his  head,  was  dark,  short,  and 
fine.  His  eye  was  of  a  pale,  turbid  gray,  unsuited,  perhaps, 
to  his  dark  hair  and  brow,  but  not  altogether  out  of  harmony 
with  his  colorless,  bilious  complexion.  His  nose  was  aqui 
line  and  delicate;  beneath  it  hung  a  thin,  comely,  dark  mus 
tache.  His  mouth  and  chin  were  meagre  and  uncertain  of 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  45 

outline;  not  vulgar,  perhaps,  but  weak.  A  cold,  fatal,  gentle 
manly  weakness,  indeed,  seemed  expressed  in  his  attenuated 
person.  His  eyes  was  restless  and  deprecating;  his  whole 
physiognomy,  his  manner  of  shifting  his  weight  from  foot  to 
foot,  the  spiritless  droop  of  his  head,  told  of  exhausted  pur 
pose,  of  a  will  relaxed.  His  dress  was  neat  and  careful,  with 
an  air  of  half-mourning,  I  made  up  my  mind  on  three 
points:  he  was  unmarried,  he  was  ill,  he  was  not  an  English 
man.  The  waiter  approached  him,  and  they  murmured  mo 
mentarily  in  barely  audible  tones.  I  heard  the  words  "claret," 
"sherry,"  with  a  tentative,  inflection,  and  finally  "beer,"  with 
a  gentle  affirmative.  Perhaps  he  was  a  Russian  in  reduced 
circumstances;  he  reminded  me  of  a  certain  type  of  Rus 
sian  which  I  had  met  on  the  Continent.  While  I  was  weigh 
ing  this  hypothesis — for  you  see  I  was  interested — there  ap 
peared  a  short,  brisk  man  with  reddish-brown  hair,  a  vulgar 
nose,  a  sharp  blue  eye,  and  a  red  beard,  confined  to  his  lower 
jaw  and  chin.  My  impecunious  Russian  was  still  standing  on 
the  rug  with  his  mild  gaze  bent  on  vacancy;  the  other  marched 
up  to  him,  and  with  his  umbrella  gave  him  a  playful  poke  in 
the  concave  frontage  of  his  melancholy  waistcoat.  "A  penny- 
ha'penny  for  your  thoughts!"  said  the  new-comer. 

His  companion  uttered  an  exclamation,  stared,  then  laid 
his  two  hands  on  the  other's  shoulders.  ...  As  my 
neighbors  proceeded  to  dine,  I  became  conscious  that, 
through  no  indiscretion  of  my  own  a  large  portion  of  their 
conversation  made  its  way  over  the  top  of  our  dividing 
partition  and  mingled  its  savor  with  that  of  my  simple  re 
past.  The  two  voices  were  pitched  in  an  unforgotten  key, 
and  equally  native  to  our  Cisatlantic  air;  they  seemed  to 
fall  upon  the  muffled  medium  of  surrounding  parlance  as  the 
rattle  of  pease  on  the  face  of  a  drum.  They  were  Ameri 
can,  however,  with  a  difference;  and  I  had  no  hesitation  in 
assigning  the  lighter  and  softer  of  the  two  to  the  pale,  thin 
gentleman,  whom  I  decidedly  preferred  to  his  comrade.  The 
latter  began  to  question  him  about  his  voyage. 

"Horrible,  horrible!  I  was  deadly  sick  from  the  hour  we 
left  New  York." 

>:  >j  >J  •>:.•:  a 


46     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

There  was  a  pause;  after  which:  "You're  the  same  cheer 
ful  old  boy,  Searle.  Going  to  die  to-morrow,  eh?" 

"I  almost  wish  I  were." 

'"You're  not  in  love  with  England,  then?  I've  heard 
people  say  at  home  that  you  dressed  and  talked  and  acted 
like  an  Englishman.  But  I  know  Englishmen,  and  I  know 
you.  You're  not  one  of  them,  Searle,  not  you.  You'll  go 
under  here,  sir;  you'll  go  under  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Sim 
mons." 

Following  this,  I  heard  a  sudden  clatter,  as  of  the  drop 
ping  of  a  knife  and  fork.  "Well,  you're  a  delicate  sort  of 
creature,  Simmons !  I  have  been  wandering  about  all  day  in 
this  accursed  city,  ready  to  cry  with  home-sickness  and  heart- 
sickness  and  every  possible  sort  of  sickness,  and  thinking,  in 
the  absence  of  anything  better,  of  meeting  you  here  this  even 
ing,  and  of  your  uttering  some  syllable  of  cheer  and  com 
fort,  and  giving  me  some  feeble  ray  of  hope.  Go  under?  Am 
I  not  under  now?  I  can't  sink  lower,  except  to  sink  into 
my  grave!" 

Mr.  Simmons  seems  to  have  staggered  a  moment  under  this 
outbreak  of  passion.  But  the  next,  "Don't  cry,  Searle,"  I 
heard  him  say.  "Remember  the  waiter.  I've  grown  English 
man  enough  for  that.  For  heaven's  sake,  don't  let  us  have 
any  feelings.  Feelings  will  do  nothing  for  you  here.  It's 
best  to  come  to  the  point.  Tell  me  in  three  words  what  you 
expect  of  me." 

I  heard  another  movement,  as  if  poor  Searle  had  collapsed 
in  his  chair.  "Upon  my  word,  Simmons,  you  are  inconceiv 
able.  You  got  my  letter?" 

"Yes,  I  got  your  letter.  I  was  never  sorrier  to  get  anything 
in  my  life." 

At  this  declaration  Mr.  Searle  rattled  out  an  oath,  which 
it  was  well  perhaps  that  I  but  partially  heard.  "John  Sim 
mons,"  he  cried,  "what  devil  possesses  you?  Are  you  going 
to  betray  me  here  in  a  foreign  land,  to  turn  out  a  false  friend, 
a  heartless  rogue?" 

"Go  on,  sir,"  said  sturdy  Simmons.  ...  "I  don't 
want  to  say  anything  to  make  you  feel  sore.  I  pity  you. 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  47 

But  you  must  allow  me  to  say  that  you  have  acted  like  a 
blasted  fool!" 

Mr.  Searle  seemed  to  have  made  an  effort  to  compose  him 
self.  "Be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  what  was  the  meaning  of 
your  letter. " 

"I  was  a  fool,  myself,  to  have  written  that  letter.  It  came 
of  my  infernal  meddlesome  benevolence.  I  had  much  better 
have  let  you  alone.  To  tell  you  the  plain  truth,  I  never  was 
so  horrified  in  my  life  as  when  I  found  that  on  the  strength 
of  that  letter  you  had  come  out  here  to  seek  your  fortune." 

"What  did  you  expect  me  to  do?" 

"I  expected  you  to  wait  patiently  till  I  had  made  further 
inquiries  and  had  written  to  you  again." 

"You  have  made  further  inquiries  now?" 

"Inquiries!    I  have  made  assaults." 

"And  you  find  I  have  no  claim?" 

"No  claim  to  call  a  claim.  It  looked  at  first  as  if  you 
had  a  very  pretty  one.  I  confess  the  idea  took  hold  of 


"I'll  have  some  brandy.  Come,  Searle,"  he  resumed, 
"don't  challenge  me  to  the  arts  of  debate,  or  I'll  settle  right 
down  on  you.  Benevolence,  as  I  say,  was  part  of  it.  The 
reflection  that  if  I  put  the  thing  through  it  would  be  a  very 
pretty  feather  in  my  cap  and  a  very  pretty  penny  in  my  purse 
was  part  of  it.  And  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  a  poor  no 
body  of  a  Yankee  walk  right  into  an  old  English  estate  was 
a  good  deal  of  it.  Upon  my  word,  Searle,  when  I  think  of  it, 
I  wish  with  all  my  heart  that,  erratic  genius  as  you  are,  you 
had  a  claim,  for  the  very  beauty  of  it !  I  should  hardly  care 
what  you  did  with  the  confounded  property  when  you  got  it. 
I  could  leave  you  alone  to  turn  it  into  Yankee  notions — into 
ducks  and  drakes,  as  they  call  it  here.  I  should  like  to  see 
you  stamping  over  it  and  kicking  up  its  sacred  dust  in  their 
very  faces!" 

"You  don't  know  me,  Simmons!"  said  Searle,  for  all  re 
sponse  to  this  untender  benediction. 

"I  should  be  very  glad  to  think  I  didn't,  Searle. 
It  seems  your  brother  George,  some  twenty  years  ago,  put 


48    THE  GREAT  MODERN^  AMERICAN  STORIES 

forth  a  feeler.  So  you  are  not  to  have  the  glory  of  even 
frightening  them." 

"I  never  frightened  any  one,"  said  Searle.  "I  shouldn't 
begin  at  this  time  of  day.  I  should  approach  the  subject  like 
a  gentleman." 

"Well,  if  you  want  very  much  to  do  something  like  a 
gentleman,  you've  got  a  capital  chance.  Take  your  dissap- 
pointment  like  a  gentleman." 

I  had  finished  my  dinner,  and  I  had  become  keenly  inter 
ested  in  poor  Mr.  Searle's  mysterious  claim ;  so  interested  that 
it  was  vexatious  to  hear  his  emotions  reflected  in  his  voice 
without  noting  them  in  his  face.  I  left  my  place,  went  over 
to  the  fire,  took  up  the  evening  paper,  and  established  a  post 
'  of  observation  behind  it. 

Lawyer  Simmons  was  in  the  act  of  choosing  a  soft  chop 
from  the  dish — an  act  accompanied  by  a  great  deal  of  prying 
and  poking  with  his  own  personal  fork.  My  disillusioned 
compatriot  had  pushed  away  his  plate ;  he  sat  with  his  elbows 
on  the  table,  gloomily  nursing  his  head  with  his  hands.  His 
companion  stared  at  him  a  moment,  I  fancied  half  tenderly; 
I  am  not  sure  whether  it  was  pity  or  whether  it  was  beer  and 
brandy. 

Searle  disgustedly  gave  his  plate  another  push.  "Any 
thing  may  happen,  now !"  he  said.  "I  don't  care  a  straw." 

"You  ought  to  care.  Have  another  chop  and  you  will  care. 
Have  some  brandy.  Take  my  advice!" 

Searle  from  between  his  two  hands  looked  at  him.  "I  have 
had  enough  of  your  advice !"  he  said. 

"A  little  more,"  said  Simmons,  mildly;  "I  shaVt  trouble 
you  again.  What  do  you  mean  to  do?" 

"I  won't  go  home!  I  have  crossed  the  ocean  for  the  last 
time." 

"What  is  the  matter?    Are  you  afraid?" 

"Yes,  I'm  afraid!  'I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me 
that  word!'" 

"You're  more  afraid  to  go  than  to  stay?" 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  49 

"I  sha'n't  stay.    I  shall  die." 

"O,  are  you  sure  of  that?" 

"One  can  always  be  sure  of  that." 

Mr.  Simmons  started  and  stared:  his  mild  cynic  had 
turned  grim  stoic.  "Upon  my  soul,"  he  said,  "one  would 
think  that  Death  had  named  the  day!" 

"We  have  named  it,  between  us." 

This  was  too  much  even  for  Mr.  Simmons's  easy  morality. 
"I  say,  Searle,"  he  cried,  "I'm  not  more  of  a  stickler  than 
the  next  man,  but  if  you  are  going  to  blaspheme,  I  shall  wash 
my  hands  of  you.  If  you'll  consent  to  return  home  with  me 
•  by  the  steamer  of  the  23d,  I'll  pay  your  passage  down.  More 
than  that,  I'll  pay  your  wine  bill." 

Searle  meditated.  "I  believe  I  never  willed  anything  in 
my  life,"  he  said;  "but  I  feel  sure  that  I  have  willed  this, 
that  I  stay  here  till  I  take  my  leave  for  a  newer  world  than 
that  poor  old  New  World  of  ours.  ...  I  have  about 
my  person  some  forty  pounds'  worth  of  British  gold  and 
the  same  amount,  say,  of  Yankee  vitality.  They'll  last  me 
out  together!  After  they  are  gone,  I  shall  lay  my  head  in 
some  English  churchyard,  beside  some  ivied  tower,  beneath 
an  English  yew." 

They  had  risen  to  their  feet.  Simmons  had  put  on  his 
overcoat;  he  stood  polishing  his  rusty  black  hat  with  his 
napkin.  "Do  you  mean  to  go  down  to  the  place?"  he  asked. 

"Possibly.  I  have  dreamed  of  it  so  much  I  should  like  to 
see  it." 

"Shall  you  call  on  Mr.  Searle?" 

"Heaven  forbid!" 

"Something  has  just  occurred  to  me,"  Simmons  pursued, 
with  an  unhandsome  grin,  as  if  Mephistopheles  were  playing 
at  malice.  "There's  a  Miss  Searle,  the  old  man's  sister." 

"Well?"  said  the  other,  frowning. 

"Well,  sir,  suppose,  instead  of  dying,  you  should  marry!" 

Mr.  Searle  frowned  in  silence.  Simmons  gave  him  a  tap 
on  the  stomach.  "Line  those  ribs  a  bit  first!"  The  poor 
gentleman  blushed  crimson  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears. 


50     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"You  are  a  coarse  brute,"  he  said.    The  scene  was  pathetic. 

The  next  morning,  not  finding  the  innocent  object  of  my 
benevolent  curiosity  in  the  coffee-room,  I  learned  from  the 
waiter  that  he  had  ordered  breakfast  in  bed.  Into  this 
asylum  I  was  not  yet  prepared  to  pursue  him.  I  spent  the 
morning  running  about  London,  chiefly  on  business,  but 
snatching  by  the  way  many  a  vivid  impression  of  its  huge 
metropolitan  interest.  Beneath  the  sullen  black  and  gray 
of  that  hoary  civic  world  the  hungry  American  mind  de 
tects  the  magic  colors  of  association.  As  the  afternoon  ap 
proached,  however,  my  impatient  heart  began  to  babble  of 
green  fields;  it  was  of  English  meadows  I  had  chiefly 
dreamed.  Thinking  over  the  suburban  lions,  I  fixed  upon 
Hampton  Court.  The  day  was  the  more  propitious  that  it 
yielded  just  that  dim,  subaqueous  light  which  sleeps  so  fondly 
upon  the  English  landscape. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  I  found  myself  wandering  through 
the  multitudinous  rooms  of  the  great  palace.  They  follow 
each  other  in  infinite  succession,  with  no  great  variety  of  in 
terest  or  aspect,  but  with  a  sort  of  regal  monotony,  and  a 
fine  specific  flavor.  They  are  most  exactly  of  their  various 
times.  You  pass  from  great  painted  and  panelled  bed-cham 
bers  and  closets,  ante-rooms,  drawing-rooms,  council-rooms, 
through  king's  suite,  queen's  suite,  and  prince's  suite,  until 
you  feel  as  if  you  were  strolling  through  the  appointed  hours 
and  stages  of  some  decorous  monarchical  day.  On  one  side 
are  the  old  monumental  upholsteries,  the  vast  cold  tarnished 
beds  and  canopies,  with  the  circumference  of  disapparelled 
royalty  attested  by  a  gilded  balustrade,  and  the  great  carved 
and  yawning  chimney-places,  where  dukes-in-waiting  may 
have  warmed  their  weary  heels;  on  the  other  side,  in  deep 
recesses,  the  immense  windows,  the  framed  and  draped  em 
brasures  where  the  sovereign  whispered  and  favorites  smiled, 
looking  out  on  the  terraced  gardens  and  the  misty  glades  of 
Bushey  Park.  The  dark  walls  are  gravely  decorated  by  in 
numerable  dark  portraits  of  persons  attached  to  court  and 
state,  more  especially  with  various  members  of  the  Dutch- 
looking  entourage  of  William  of  Orange,  the  restorer  of  the 
palace;  with  good  store,  too,  of  the  lily-bosomed  models  of 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  51 

Lely  and  Kneller.  The  whole  tone  of  this  long-drawn  interior 
is  immensly  sombre,  prosaic,  and  sad.  The  tints  of  all  things 
have  sunk  to  a  cold  and  melancholy  brown,  and  the  great 
palatial  void  seems  to  hold  no  stouter  tenantry  than  a  sort  of 
pungent  odorous  chill.  I  seemed  to  be  the  only  visitor.  I 
held  ungrudged  communion  with  the  formal  genius  of  the 
spot.  Poor  mortalized  kings!  ineffective  lure  of  royalty! 
This,  or  something  like  it,  was  the  murmured  burden  of  my 
musings.  They  were  interrupted  suddenly  by  my  coming 
upon  a  person  standing  in  devout  contemplation  before  a 
simpering  countess  of  Sir  Peter  Lely's  creation.  On  hear 
ing  my  footstep  this  person  turned  his  head,  and  I  recog 
nized  my  fellow-lodger  at  the  Red-Lion.  I  was  apparently 
recognized  as  well ;  I  detected  an  air  of  overture  in  his  glance. 
In  a  few  moments,  seeing  I  had  a  catalogue,  he  asked  the 
name  of  the  portrait.  On  my  ascertaining  it,  he  inquired, 
timidly,  how  I  liked  the  lady. 

"Well,"  said  I,  not  quite  timidly  enough,  perhaps,  "I 
confess  she  seems  to  me  rather  a  light  piece  of  work." 

He  remained  silent,  and  a  little  abashed,  I  think.  As 
we  strolled  away  he  stole  a  sidelong  glance  of  farewell  at 
his  leering  shepherdess.  To  speak  with  him  face  to  face 
was  to  feel  keenly  that  he  was  weak  arid  interesting.  We 
talked  of  our  inn,  of  London,  of  the  palace;  he  uttered  his 
mind  freely,  but  he  seemed  to  struggle  with  a  weight  of 
deprsssion.  It  was  a  simple  mind  enough,  with  no  great 
culture,  I  fancied,  but  with  a  certain  appealing  native  grace. 
I  foresaw  that  I  should  find  him  a  true  American,  full  of 
that  perplexing  interfusion  of  refinement  and  crudity  which 
marks  the  American  mind.  His  perceptions,  I  divined,  were 
delicate;  his  opinions,  possibly  gross.  On  my  telling  him 
that  I  too  was  an  American,  he  stopped  short  and  seemed 
overcome  with  emotion :  then  silently  passing  his  arm  into  my 
own,  he  suffered  me  to  lead  him  through  the  rest  of  the 
palace  and  down  into  the  gardens.  A  vast  gravelled  platform 
stretches  itself  before  the  basement  of  the  palace,  taking  the 
afternoon  sun.  A  portion  of  the  edifice  is  reserved  as  a 
series  of  private  apartments,  occupied  by  state  pensioners, 
reduced  gentlewomen  in  receipf  of  the  Queen's  bounty,  and 


52     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

other  deserving  persons.  Many  of  these  apartments  have 
their  little  private  gardens;  and  here  and  there,  between  their 
verdure-coated  walls,  you  catch  a  glimpse  of  these  dim  horti 
cultural  closets.  My  companion  and  I  took  many  a  turn  up 
and  down  this  spacious  level,  looking  down  on  the  antique 
geometry  of  the  lower  garden  and  on  the  stoutly  woven 
tapestry  of  vine  and  blossom  which  muffles  the  foundations 
of  the  huge  red  pile.  .  .  .  There  are  few  sensations  so 
exquisite  in  life  as  to  stand  with  a  companion  in  a  foreign 
land  and  inhale  to  the  depths  of  your  consciousness  the  alien 
savor  of  the  air  and  the  tonic  picturesqueness  of  things. 
This  common  relish  of  local  color  makes  comrades  of 
.  strangers.  My  companion  seemed  oppressed  with  vague 
amazement  He  stared  and  lingered  and  scanned  the  scene 
with  a  gentle  scowl.  His  enjoyment  appeared  to  give  him 
pain.  I  proposed,  at  last,  that  we  should  dine  in  the 
neighborhood  and  take  a  late  train  to  town.  We  made  our 
way  out  of  the  gardens  into  the  adjoining  village,  where  we 
found  an  excellent  inn.  Mr.  Searle  sat  down  to  table  with 
small  apparent  interest  in  the  repast,  but  gradually  warm 
ing  to  his  work,  he  declared  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  that 
for  the  first  time  in  a  month  he  felt  an  appetite. 

"You're  an  invalid?"  I  said. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.     "A  hopeless  one!" 

The  little  village  of  Hampton  Court  stands  clustered 
about  the  broad  entrance  of  Bushey  Park.  After  we  had 
dined  we  lounged  along  into  the  hazy  vista  of  the  great 
avenue  of  horse-chestnuts.  There  is  a  rare  emotion,  familiar 
to  every  intelligent  traveller,  in  which  the  mind,  with  a  great 
>.  passionate  throb,  achieves  a  magical  synthesis  of  its  im- 
_, pressions.  You  feel  England;  you  feel  Italy.  The  reflection 
for  the  moment  has  an  extraordinary  poignancy.  I  had  known 
it  from  time  to  time  in  Italy,  and  had  opened  my  soul  to  it  as 
to  the  spirit  of  the  Lord.  Since  my  arrival  in  England  I  had 
been  waiting  for  it  to  come.  A  bottle  of  excellent  Burgundy 
at  dinner  had  perhaps  unlocked  to  it  the  gates  of  sense;  it 
came  now  with  a  conquering  tread.  Just  the  scene  around  me 
was  the  England  of  my  visions.  Over  against  us,  amid  the 
deep-hued  bloom  of  its  ordered  gardens,  the  dark  red  palace, 


'A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  53 

with  its  formal  copings  and  its  vacant  windows,  seemed  to 
tell  of  a  proud  and  splendid  past;  the  little  village  nestling 
between  park  and  palace,  around  a  patch  of  turfy  common, 
with  its  tavern  of  gentility,  its  ivy-towered  church,  its  par 
sonage,  retained  to  my  modernized  fancy  the  lurking  sem 
blance  of  a  feudal  hamlet.  .  .  . 

"Well,"  I  said  to  my  friend,  "I  think  there  is  no  mistake 
about  this  being  England.  We  may  like  it  or  not,  it's  posi 
tive  !  No  more  dense  and  stubborn  fact  ever  settled  down  on 
an  expectant  tourist.  It  brings  my  heart  into  my  throat." 

Searle  was  silent.  I  looked  at  him;  he  was  looking  up  at 
the  sky,  as  if  he  were  watching  some  visible  descent  of  the 
elements.  "On  me  too,"  he  said,  "it's  settling  down  1"  Then 
with  a  forced  smile:  "Heaven  give  me  strength  to  bear  it!" 


"You  have  the  advantage  over  me,"  my  companion  re 
sumed,  after  a  pause,  "in  coming  to  all  this  with  an  educated 
eye.  You  already  know  the  old.  I  have  never  known  it  but 
by  report.  I  have  always  fancied  I  should  like  it.  In  a 
small  way  at  home,  you  know,  I  have  tried  to  stick  to  the 
old.  I  must  be  a  conservative  by  nature.  People  at  home — 
a  few  people — used  to  call  me  a  snob." 

"I  don't  believe  you  were  a  snob,"  I  cried.  "You  look  too 
amiable." 

He  smiled  sadly.  "There  it  is,"  he  said.  "It's  the  old 
story!  I'm  amiable!  I  know  what  that  means!  I  was  too 
great  a  fool  to  be  even  a  snob !  If  I  had  been  I  should  prob 
ably  have  come  abroad  earlier  in  life — before — before — " 
He  paused,  and  his  head  dropped  sadly  on  his  breast. 

The  bottle  of  Bergundy  had  loosened  his  tongue.  I  felt 
that  my  learning  his  story  was  merely  a  question  of  time. 
Something  told  me  that  I  had  gained  his  confidence  and  he 
would  unfold  himself.  "Before  you  lost  your  health,"  I  said. 

"Before  I  lost  my  health,"  he  answered.  "And  my  prop 
erty — the  little  I  had.  And  my  ambition.  And  my  self- 
esteem." 

"Come!"  I  said.  "You  shall  get  them  all  back.  This 
tonic  English  climate  will  wind  you  up  in  a  month. 


54    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 
And  with  the  return  of  health,  all  the  rest  will  return." 

Just  at  this  moment  there  came  cantering  down  the  shallow 
glade  of  the  avenue  a  young  girl  on  a  fine  black  horse — one 
of  those  lovely  budding  gentlewomen,  perfectly  mounted  and 
equipped,  who  form  to  American  eyes  the  sweetest  incident  of 
English  scenery.  She  had  distanced  her  servant,  and,  as  she 
came  abreast  of  us,  turned  slightly  in  her  saddle  and  looked 
back  at  him.  In  the  movement  she  dropped  her  whip. 
Drawing  in  her  horse,  she  cast  upon  the  ground  a  glance  of 
maidenly  alarm.  "This  is  something  better  than  a  Lely," 
I  said.  Searle  hastened  forward,  picked  up  the  whip,  and 
removing  his  hat  with  an  air  of  great  devotion,  presented  it 
to  the  young  girl.  Fluttered  and  blushing,  she  reached  for 
ward,  took  it  with  softly  murmured  gratitude,  and  the  next 
moment  was  bounding  over  the  elastic  turf.  Searle  stood 
watching  her;  the  servant,  as  he  passed  us,  touched  his  hat. 
When  Searle  turned  toward  me  again,  I  saw  that  his  face 
was  glowing  with  a  violent  blush.  "I  doubt  of  your  having 
come  abroad  too  late!"  I  said,  laughing. 

A  short  distance  from  where  we  had  stopped  was  an  old 
stone  bench.  We  went  and  sat  down  on  it  and  watched  the 
light  mist  turning  to  sullen  gold  in  the  rays  of  the  evening 
sun.  "We  ought  to  be  thinking  of  the  train  back  to  London, 
I  suppose,"  I  said  at  last. 

"O,  hang  the  train!"  said  Searle. 

"Willingly!  There  could  be  no  better  spot  than  this  to 
feel  the  magic  of  an  English  twilight."  So  we  lingered,  and 
the  twilight  lingered  around  us — a  light  and  not  a  darkness. 
As  we  sat,  there  came  trudging  along  the  road  an  individual 
whom,  from  afar,  I  recognized  as  a  member  of  the  genus 
"tramp."  I  had  read  of  the  British  tramp,  but  I  had  never 
yet  encountered  him,  and  I  brought  my  historic  consciousness 
to  bear  upon  the  present  specimen.  As  he  approached  us  he 
slackened  pace  and  finally  halted,  touching  his  cap.  He  was 
a  man  of  middle  age,  clad  in  a  greasy  bonnet,  with  greasy 
ear-locks  depending  from  its  sides.  Round  his  neck  was  a 
grimy  red  scarf,  tucked  into  his  waistcoat;  his  coat  and 
trousers  had  a  remote  affinity  with  those  of  a  reduced  hostler. 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  55 

In  one  hand  he  had  a  stick;  on  his  arm  he  bore  a  tattered 
basket,  with  a  handful  of  withered  green  stuff  in  the  bottom. 
His  face  was  pale,  haggard,  and  degraded  beyond  descrip 
tion — a  singular  mixture  of  brutality  and  finesse.  He  had  a 
history.  From  what  height  had  he  fallen,  from  what  depth 
had  he  risen  ?  Never  was  a  form  of  rascally  beggarhood  more 
complete.  There  was  a  merciless  fixedness  of  outline  about 
him  which  filled  me  with  a  kind  of  awe.  I  felt  as  if  I  were 
in  the  presence  of  a  personage — an  artist  in  vagrancy. 

"For  God's  sake,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  in  that  raucous 
tone  of  weather-beaten  poverty  suggestive  of  chronic  sore- 
throat  exacerbated  by  perpetual  gin,  "for  God's  sake,  gentle 
men,  have  pity  on  a  poor  fern-collector!" — turning  up  his 
stale  dandelions.  "Food  hasn't  passed  my  lips,  gentlemen,  in 
the  last  three  days." 

We  gaped  responsive,  in  the  precious  pity  of  guileless 
Yankeeism.  "I  wonder/'  thought  I,  "if  half  a  crown  would 
be  enough?"  And  our  fasting  botanist  went  limping  away 
through  the  park  with  a  mystery  of  satirical  gratitude  super- 
added  to  his  general  mystery. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  had  seen  my  do <p 'pel- ganger,"  said  Searle. 
"He  reminds  me  of  myself.  What  am  I  but  a  tramp?" 

Upon  this  hint  I  spoke.  "What  are  you,  my  friend?"  I 
asked.  "Who  are  you?" 

A  sudden  blush  rose  to  his  pale  face,  so  that  I  feared  I  had 
offended  him.  He  poked  a  moment  at  the  sod  with  the  point 
of  his  umbrella,  before  answering.  "Who  am  I?"  he  said 
at  last.  "My  name  is  Clement  Searle.  I  was  born  in  New 
York.  I  have  lived  in  New  York.  What  am  I?  That's 
easily  told.  Nothing !  I  assure  you,  nothing." 

"A  very  good  fellow,  apparently,"  I  protested. 

"A  very  good  fellow!  Ah,  there  it  is!  You've  said  more 
than  you  mean.  It's  by  having  been  a  very  good  fellow  all 
my  days  that  I've  come  to  this.  I  have  drifted  through  life. 
I'm  a  failure,  sir — a  failure  as  hopeless  and  helpless  as  any 
that  ever  swallowed  up  the  slender  investments  of  the  widow 
and  the  orphan.  I  don't  pay  five  cents  on  the  dollar.  Of 
what  I  was  to  begin  with  no  memory  remains.  I  have  been 
ebbing  away,  from  the  start,  in  a  steady  current  which,  at 


56     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

forty,  has  left  this  arid  sand-bank  behind.  To  begin  with, 
certainly,  I  was  not  a  fountain  of  wisdom.  All  the  more 
reason  for  a  definite  channel — for  will  and  purpose  and 
direction.  I  walked  by  chance  and  sympathy  and  sentiment, 
Take  a  turn  through  New  York  and  you'll  find  my  tattered 
sympathies  and  sentiments  dangling  on  every  bush  and  flut 
tering  in  every  breeze;  the  men  to  whom  I  lent  money,  the 
women  to  whom  I  made  love,  the  friends  I  trusted,  the  dreams 
I  cherished,  the  poisonous  fumes  of  pleasure,  amid  which 
nothing  was  sweet  or  precious  but  the  manhood  they  stifled ! 
It  was  my  fault  that  I  believed  in  pleasure  here  below.  I 
believe  in  it  still,  but  as  I  believe  in  God  and  not  jn  man! 
I  believed  in  eating  your  cake  and  having  it.  I  respected 
Pleasure,  and  she  made  a  fool  of  me.  Other  men,  treating  her 
like  the  arrant  strumpet  she  is,  enjoyed  her  for  the  hour,  but 
kept  their  good  manners  for  plain-faced  Business,  with  the 
larger  dowry,  to  whom  they  are  now  lawfully  married.  My 
taste  was  to  be  delicate;  well,  perhaps  I  was  so!  I  had  a 
little  money;  it  went  the  way  of  my  little  wit.  Here  in  my 
pocket  I  have  forty  pounds  of  it  left.  The  only  thing  I  have 
to  show  for  my  money  and  my  wit  is  a  little  volume  of  verses, 
printed  at  my  own  expense,  in  which  fifteen  years  ago  I 
made  bold  to  sing  the  charms  of  love  and  idleness.  Six 
months  since  I  got  hold  of  the  volume;  it  reads  like  the 
poetry  of  fifty  years  ago.  The  form  is  incredible.  I  hadn't 
seen  Hampton  Court  then.  When  I  was  thirty  I  married. 
It  was  a  sad  mistake,  but  a  generous  one.  The  young  girl 
was  poor  and  obscure,  but  beautiful  and  proud.  I  fancied 
she  would  make  an  incomparable  woman.  It  was  a  sad 
mistake!  She  died  at  the  end  of  three  years,  leaving  no 
children.  ...  I  have  always  fancied  that  I  was  meant 
for  a  gentler  world.  Before  heaven,  sir — whoever  you  are — • 
I'm  in  practice  so  absurdly  tender-hearted  that  I  can  afford 
to  say  it, — I  came  into  the  world  an  aristocrat.  I  was 
born  with  a  soul  for  the  picturesque.  It  condemns  me,  I 
confess;  but  in  a  measure,  too,  it  absolves  me.  I  found  it 
nowhere.  I  found  a  world  all  hard  lines  and  harsh  lights, 
without  shade,  without  composition,  as  they  say  of  pictures, 
without  the  lovely  mystery  of  color.  To  furnish  color,  I 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  57 

melted  down  the  very  substance  of  my  own  soul.  I  went 
about  with  my  brush,  touching  up  and  toning  down;  a  very 
pretty  chiaroscuro  you'll  find  in  my  track!  Sitting  here,  in 
this  old  park,  in  this  old  land,  I  feel — I  feel  that  I  hover  on 
the  misty  verge  of  what  might  have  been!  I  should  have 
been  born  here  and  not  there ;  here  my  vulgar  idleness  would 
have  been — don't  laugh  now! — would  have  been  elegant 
leisure.  How  it  was  that  I  never  came  abroad  is  more  than 
I  can  say.  It  might  have  cut  the  knot ;  but  the  knot  was  too 
tight.  I  was  always  unwell  or  in  debt  or  entangled.  Besides, 
I  had  a  horror  of  the  sea — with  reason,  heaven  knows.  A 
year  ago  I  was  reminded  of  the  existence  of  an  old  claim  to 
a  portion  of  an  English  estate,  cherished  off  and  on  by  various 
members  of  my  family  for  the  past  eighty  years.  'It's  un 
deniably  slender  and  desperately  hard  to  define.  I  am  by 
no  means  sure  that  to  this  hour  I  have  mastered  it.  ... 
A  couple  of  months  since  there  came  out  here  on  business  of 
his  own  a  sort  of  half-friend  of  mine,  a  sharp  New  York 
lawyer,  an  extremely  common  fellow,  but  a  man  with  an  eye 
for  the  weak  point  and  the  strong  point.  It  was  with  him 
yesterday  that  you  saw  me  dining.  He  undertook,  as  he 
expressed  it,  to  'nose  round'  and  see  if  anything  could  be 
made  of  this  pretended  right.  The  matter  had  never  seriously 
been  taken  up.  A  month  later  I  got  a  letter  from  Simmons, 
assuring  me  that  things  looked  mighty  well,  that  he  should 
be  vastly  amazed  if  I  hadn't  a  case.  I  took  fire  in  a  humid 
sort  of  way;  I  acted,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life — I  sailed  for 
England.  I  have  been  here  three  days :  it  seems  three  months. 
After  keeping  me  waiting  for  thirty-six  hours,  last  evening 
my  precious  Simmons  makes  his  appearance  and  informs 
me,  with  his  mouth  full  of  mutton,  that  I  was  a  blasted  fool 
to  have  taken  him  at  his  word ;  that  he  had  been  precipitate ; 
that  I  had  been  precipitate;  that  my  claim  was  moonshine; 
and  that  I  must  do  penance  and  take  a  ticket  for  another 
fortnight  of  seasickness  in  his  agreeable  society.  .  .  . 
Poor  Simmons!  I  forgave  him  with  all  my  heart.  But  for 
him  I  shouldn't  be  sitting  in  this  place,  in  this  air,  with  these 
thoughts.  This  is  a  world  I  could  have  loved.  There's  a 
great  fitness  in  its  having  been  kept  for  the  last.  After  this 


58    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

nothing  would  have  been  tolerable.  I  shall  now  have  a 
month  of  it,  I  hope,  and  I  shall  not  have  a  chance  to  be 
disenchanted.  There's  one  thing!",  and  here,  pausing,  he 
laid  his  hand  on  mine;  I  rose  and  stood  before  him,  "I  wish 
it  were  possible  you  should  be  with  me  to  the  end." 

"I  promise  you,"  I  said,  "to  leave  you  only  at  your  own 
request.  But  it  must  be  on  condition  of  your  omitting  from 
your  conversation  this  intolerable  flavor  of  mortality.  The 
end!  Perhaps  it's  the  beginning."  .  .  .  "Get  well,  and 
the  rest  will  take  care  of  itself.  I'm  interested  in  your  claim. 

What  is  the  estimated  value  of  your  interest?" 

"We  were  instructed  from  the  first  to  accept  a  compro 
mise.  Compared  with  the  whole  property,  our  utmost  right 
is  extremely  small.  Simmons  talked  of  eighty-five  thousand 
dollars.  Why  eighty-five  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Don't 
beguile  me  into  figures." 

"Allow  me  one  more  question.  Who  is  actually  in  pos 
session?" 

"A  certain  Mr.  Richard  Searle.  I  know  nothing  about 
him." 

"He  is  in  some  way  related  to  you?" 

"Our  great-grandfathers  were  half-brothers.  What  does 
that  make?" 

"Twentieth  cousins,  say.  And  where  does  your  twentieth 
cousin  live?" 

"At  Lockley  Park,  Herefordshire." 

I  pondered  awhile.  "I'm  interested  in  you,  Mr.  Searle,"  I 
said.  "In  your  story,  in  your  title,  such  as  it  is,  and  in  this 
Lockley  Park,  Herefordshire.  Suppose  we  go  down  and  see 
it." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  certain  alertness.  "I  shall  make 
a  sound  man  of  him,  yet,"  I  said  to  myself. 

"I  shouldn't  have  the  heart,"  he  said,  "to  accomplish  the 
melancholy  pilgrimage  alone.  But  with  you  I'll  go  any 
where." 

On  our  return  to  London  we  determined  to  spend  three 
days  there  together,  and  then  go  into  the  country.  We  felt  to 
excellent  purpose  the  sombre  charm  of  London,  the  mighty 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  59 

mother-city  of  our  mighty  race,  the  great  distributing  heart  ^ 
of  our  traditional  life.      Certain  London  characteristics —  \ 
monuments,  relics,  hints  of  history,  local  moods  and  mem-    ? 
ories — are  more  deeply  suggestive  to  an  American  soul  than 
anything  else  in  Europe.    With  an  equal  attentive  piety  my 
friend  and  I  glanced  at  these  things.     Their  influence  on 
Searle  was  deep  and  singular.     His  observation  I  soon  per 
ceived  to  be  extremely  acute.    His  almost  passionate  relish  for 
the  old,  the  artificial,  and  social,  wellnigh  extinct  from  its 
long  inanition,  began  now  to  tremble  and  thrill  with  a  tardy 
vitality.     I  watched  in  silent  wonderment  this  strange  meta 
physical  renascence. 

Between  the  fair  boundaries  of  the  counties  of  Hereford 
and  Worcester  rise  in  a  long  undulation  the  sloping  pastures 
of  the  Malvern  Hills.  Consulting  a  big  red  book  on  the 
-  castles  and  manors  of  England,  we  found  Lockley  Park  to 
be  seated  near  the  base  of  this  grassy  range — though  in 
what  county  I  forget.  In  the  pages  of  this  genial  volume,  . 
Lockley  Park  and  its  appurtenances  made  a  very  handsome 
figure.  We  took  up  our  abode  at  a  certain  little  wayside 
inn,  at  which  in  the  days  of  leisure  the  coach  must  have 
stopped  for  lunch,  and  burnished  pewters  of  rustic  ale  been 
tenderly  exalted  to  "outsides"  athirst  with  breezy  progression. 
Here  we  stopped,  for  sheer  admiration  of  its  steep  thatched 
roof,  its  latticed  windows,  and  its  homely  porch.  We  allowed 
a  couple  of  days  to  elapse  in  vague,  undirected  strolls  and 
sweet  sentimental  observance  of  the  land,  before  we  pre 
pared  to  execute  the  especial  purpose  of  our  journey.  This 
admirable  region  is  a  compendium  of  the  general  physi 
ognomy  of  England.  The  noble  friendliness  of  the  scenery, 
its  subtle  old-friendliness,  the  magical  familiarity  of  multi 
tudinous  details,  appealed  to  us  at  every  step  and  at  every  , 
glance.  Deep  in  our  souls  a  natural  affection  answered.  The  / 
whole  land,  in  the  full,  warm  rains  of  the  last  of  April,  had 
burst  into  sudden  perfect  spring.  The  dark  walls  of  the 
hedge-rows  had  turned  into  blooming  screens;  the  sodden 
verdure  of  lawn  and  meadow  was  streaked  with  a  ranker 
freshness.  We  went  forth  without  loss  of  time  for  a  long 
walk  on  the  hills.  Reaching  their  summits,  you  find  half 


60    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

England  unrolled  at  your  feet.  A  dozen  broad  counties, 
within  the  vast  range  of  your  vision,  commingle  with  their 
green  exhalations.  Closely  beneath  us  lay  the  dark,  rich  flats 
of  hedgy  Worcestershire  and  the  copse-checkered  slopes  of 
rolling  Hereford,  white  with  the  blossom  of  apples.  At 
widely  opposite  points  of  the  large  expanse  two  great 
cathedral  towers  rise  sharply,  taking  the  light,  from  the 
settled  shadow  of  their  circling  towns — the  light,  the  in 
effable  English  light!  "Out  of  England,"  cried  Searle,  "it's 
but  a  garish  world  1" 

The  whole  vast  sweep  of  our  surrounding  prospect  lay 
answering  in  a  myriad  fleeting  shades  the  cloudy  process  of 
the  tremendous  sky.  The  English  heaven  is  a  fit  antithesis 
to  the  complex  English  earth.  We  possess  in  America  the 
infinite  beauty  of  the  blue;  England  possesses  the  splendor 
of  combined  and  animated  clouds.  Over  against  us,  from  our 
station  on  the  hills,  we  saw  them  piled  and  dissolved,  com 
pacted  and  shifted,  blotting  the  azure  with  sullen  rain  spots, 
stretching,  breeze-fretted,  into  dappled  fields  of  gray,  burst- 
into  a  storm  of  light  or  melting  into  a  drizzle  of  silver.  We 
made  our  way  along  the  rounded  summits  of  these  well- 
grazed  heights — mild,  breezy  inland  downs — and  descended 
through  long-drawn  slopes  of  fields,  green  to  cottage  doors, 
to  where  a  rural  village  beckoned  us  from  its  seat  among 
the  meadows.  Close  behind  it,  I  admit,  the  railway  shoots 
fiercely  from  its  tunnel  in  the  hills;  and  yet  there  broods 
upon  this  charming  hamlet  an  old-time  quietude  and  privacy, 
which  seems  to  make  it  a  violation  of  confidence  to  tell  its 
name  so  far  away.  We  struck  through  a  narrow  lane,  a  green 
lane,  dim  with  its  height  of  hedges ;  it  led  us  to  a  superb  old 
farmhouse,  now  jostled  by  the  multiplied  lanes  and  roads 
which  have  curtailed  its  ancient  appanage.  .  .  .  Pass 
ing  out  upon  the  high-road,  we  came  to  the  common  browsing- 
patch,  the  "village  green"  of  the  tales  of  our  youth.  Nothing 
was  wanting:  the  shaggy,  mouse-colored  donkey,  nosing  the 
turf  with  his  mild  and  huge  proboscis;  the  geese;  the  old 
woman — the  old  woman,  in  person,  with  her  red  cloak  and 
her  black  bonnet,  frilled  about  the  face  and  double- frilled 
beside  her  decent,  placid  cheeks;  the  towering  ploughman 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  61 

With  his  white  smock-frock,  puckered  on  chest  and  back, 
his  short  corduroys,  his  mighty  calves,  his  big,  red,  rural  face. 
We  greeted  these  things  as  children  greet  the  loved  pictures 
in  a  story-book,  lost  and  mourned  and  found  again.  It  was 
marvellous  how  well  we  knew  them.  Beside  the  road  we 
saw  a  ploughboy  straddle,  whistling,  on  a  stile.  Gainsbor 
ough  might  have  painted  him.  Beyond  the  stile,  across  the 
level  velvet  of  a  meadow,  a  footpath  lay,  like  a  thread  of 
darker  woof.  We  followed  it  from  field  to  field  and  from 
stile  to  stile.  It  was  the  way  to  church.  At  the  church  we 
finally  arrived,  lost  in  its  rook-haunted  churchyard,  hidden 
from  the  workday  world  by  the  broad  stillness  of  pastures — 
a  gray,  gray  tower,  a  huge  black  yew,  a  cluster  of  village 
graves,  with  crooked  headstones  in  grassy,  low  relief.  The 
whole  scene  was  deeply  ecclesiastical.  My  companion  was 
overcome. 

"You  must  bury  me  here,"  he  cried.  "It's  the  first  church 
I  have  seen  in  my  life.  How  it  makes  a  Sunday  where  it 
stands!" 

The  next  day  we  saw  a  church  of  statelier  proportions. 
We  walked  over  to  Worcester,  through  such  a  mist  of  local 
color,  that  I  felt  like  one  of  Smollett's  pedestrian  heroes, 
faring  tavenward  for  a  night  of  adventures.  As  we  neared 
the  provincial  city  we  saw  the  steepled  mass  of  the  cathedral, 
long  and  high,  rise  far  into  the  cloud- freckled  blue.  And  as 
we  came  nearer  still,  we  stopped  on  the  bridge  and  viewed  the 
solid  minister  reflected  in  the  yellow  Severn.  .  .  .  On 
the  third  morning  we  betook  ourselves  to  Lockley  Park,  hav 
ing  learned  that  the  greater  part  of  it  was  open  to  visitors, 
and  that,  indeed,  on  application,  the  house  was  occasionally 
shown. 

Within  its  broad  enclosure  many  a  declining  spur  of  the 
great  hills  melted  into  parklike  slopes  and  dells.  A  long 
avenue  wound  and  circled  from  the  outermost  gate  through 
an  trntrimmed  woodland,  whence  you  glanced  at  further 
slopes  and  glades  and  copses  and  bosky  recesses — at  every 
thing  except  the  limits  of  the  place.  It  was  as  free  and  wild 
and  untended  as  the  villa  of  an  Italian  prince;  and  I  have 
never  seen  the  stern  English  fact  of  property  put  on  such  an 


62     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

air  of  innocence.  The  weather  had  just  become  perfect;  it 
was  one  of  the  dozen  exquisite  days  of  the  English  year — 
days  stamped  with  refinement  of  purity  unknown  in  more 
liberal  climes.  It  was  as  if  the  mellow  brightness,  as  tender 
as  that  of  the  primroses  which  starred  the  dark  waysides  like 
petals  wind-scattered  over  beds  of  moss,  had  been  meted 
out  to  us  by  the  cubic  foot,  tempered,  refined,  recorded! 
From  this  external  region  we  passed  into  the  heart  of  the 
park,  through  a  second  lodge-gate,  with  weather-worn  gild 
ing  on  its  twisted  bars,  to  the  smooth  slopes  where  the  great 
trees  stood  singly  and  the  tame  deer  browsed  along  the  bed  of 
a  woodland  stream.  Hence,  before  us,  we  perceived  the  dark 
Elizabethan  manor  among  its  blooming  parterres  and  ter 
races. 

"Here  you  can  wander  all  day,"  I  said  to  Searle,  "like  a 
proscribed  and  exiled  prince,  hovering  about  the  dominion  of 
the  usurper." 

"To  think,"  he  answered,  "of  people  having  enjoyed  this 
all  these  years!  I  know  what  I  am — what  might  I  have 
been?  What  does  all  this  make  of  you?" 

"That  it  makes  you  happy,"  I  said,  "I  should  hesitate  to 
believe.  But  it's  hard  to  suppose  that  such  a  place  has  not 
some  beneficent  action  of  its  own." 

"What  a  perfect  scene  and  background  it  forms !"  Searle 
went  on.  "What  legends,  what  histories  it  knows  1  My  heart 
is  breaking  with  unutterable  visions.  There's  Tennyson's 
Talking  Oak.  What  summer  days  one  could  spend  here! 
How  I  could  lounge  my  bit  of  life  away  on  this  shady  stretch 
of  turf!  Haven't  I  some  maiden-cousin  in  yon  moated 
grange  who  would  give  me  kind  leave?"  And  then  turning 
almost  fiercely  upon  me:  "Why  did  you  bring  me  here? 
Why  did.  you  drag  me  into  this  torment  of  vain  regrets?" 

At  this  moment  there  passed  near  us  a  servant  who  had 
emerged  from  the  gardens  of  the  great  house.  I  hailed  him 
and  inquired  whether  we  should  be  likely  to  gain  admittance. 
He  answered  that  Mr.  Searle  was  away  from  home,  and  that 
he  thought  it  probable  the  housekeeper  would  consent  to  do 
the  honors  of  the  mansion.  I  passed  my  arm  into  Searle's. 
"Come,"  I  said.  "Drain  the  cup,  bitter-sweet  though  it  be. 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  63, 

We  shall  go  in."  We  passed  another  lodge-gate  and  entered 
the  gardens.  The  house  was  an  admirable  specimen  of  com 
plete  Elizabethan,  a  multitudinous  cluster  of  gables  and 
porches,  oriels  and  turrets,  screens  of  ivy  and  pinnacles  of 
slate.  Two  broad  terraces  commanded  the  great  wooded 
horizon  of  the  adjacent  domain.  Our  summons  was  answered 
by  the  butler  in  person,  solemn  and  tout  de  noir  habille.  He 
repeated  the  statement  that  Mr.  Searle  was  away  from  home, 
and  that  he  would  present  our  petition  to  the  housekeeper. 
We  would  be  so  good,  however,  as  to  give  him  our  cards. 
This  request,  following  so  directly  on  the  assertion  that  Mr. 
Searle  was  absent,  seemed  to  my  companion  not  distinctly 
pertinent.  "Surely  not  for  the  housekeeper,"  he  said. 

The  butler  gave  a  deferential  cough.  "Miss  Searle  is  at 
home." 

"Yours  alone  will  suffice,"  said  Searle.  I  took  out  a  card 
and  pencil,  and  wrote  beneath  my  name,  New  York.  Stand 
ing  with  the  pencil  in  my  hand  I  felt  a  sudden  impulse. 
Without  in  the  least  weighing  proprieties  or  results,  I  yielded 
to  it.  I  added  above  my  name,  Mr.  Clement  Searle.  What 
would  come  of  it  ? 

Before  many  minutes  the  housekeeper  attended  us — a 
fresh  rosy  little  old  woman  in  a  dowdy  clean  cap  and  a 
scanty  calico  gown;  an  exquisite  specimen  of  refined  and 
venerable  servility.  She  had  the  accent  of  the  country,  but 
the  manners  of  the  house.  Under  her  guidance  we  passed 
through  a  dozen  apartments,  duly  stocked  with  old  pictures, 
old  tapestry,  old  carvings,  old  armor,  with  all  the  constituent 
properties  of  an  English  manor.  The  pictures  were  es 
pecially  valuable.  The  two  Vandykes,  the  trio  of  rosy 
Rubenses,  the  sole  and  sombre  Rembrandt,  glowed  with 
conscious  authenticity.  A  Claude,  a  Murillo,  a  Greuze,  and 
a  Gainsborough  hung  gracious  in  their  chosen  places.  Searle 
strolled  about  silent,  pale,  and  grave,  with  bloodshot  eyes  and 
lips  compressed.  He  uttered  no  comment  and  asked  no 
question.  Missing  him,  at  last,  from  my  side,  I  retraced  my 
steps  and  found  him  in  a  room  we  had  just  left,  on  a  tar 
nished  silken  divan,  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands.  Be 
fore  him,  ranged  on  an  antique  buffet,  was  a  magnificent  col- 


64    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

lection  of  old  Italian  majolica;  huge  platters  radiant  with 
their  steady  colors,  jugs  and  vases  nobly  bellied  and  em 
bossed.  There  came  to  me,  as  I  looked,  a  sudden  vision  of 
the  young  English  gentleman,  who  eighty  years  ago  had 
travelled  by  slow  stages  to  Italy  and  been  waited  on  at  his 
inn  by  persuasive  toymen.  ''What  is  it,  Searle?"  I  asked. 
"Are  you  unwell?" 

He  uncovered  his  haggard  face  and  showed  a  burning 
blush.  Then  smiling  in  hot  irony:  "A  memory  of  the  pastl 
I  was  thinking  of  a  china  vase  that  used  to  stand  on  the 
parlor  mantel-shelf  while  I  was  a  boy,  with  the  portrait  of 
General  Jackson  painted  on  one  side  and  a  bunch  of  flowers 
on  the  other.  How  long  do  you  suppose  that  majolica  has 
been  in  the  family?" 

"A  long  time  probably.  It  was  brought  hither  in  the  last 
century,  into  old,  old  England,  out  of  old,  old  Italy,  by  some 
old  young  buck  of  this  excellent  house  with  a  taste  for 
chinoiseries.  Here  it  has  stood  for  a  hundred  years,  keep 
ing  its  clear,  firm  hues  in  this  aristocratic  twilight." 

Searle  sprang  to  his  feet.  "I  say,"  he  cried,  "in  heaven's 
name  take  me  away!  I  can't  stand  this.  Before  I  know 
it  I  shall  do  something  I  shall  be  ashamed  of.  I  shall  steal 
one  of  their  d — d  majolicas.  I  shall  proclaim  my  identity 
and  assert  my  rights!  I  shall  go  blubbering  to  Miss  Searle 
and  ask  her  in  pity's  name  to  keep  me  here  for  a  month !" 

If  poor  Searle  could  ever  have  been  said  to  look  "danger 
ous"  he  looked  so  now.  I  began  to  regret  my  officious 
presentation  of  his  name,  and  prepared  without  delay  to  lead 
him  out  of  the  house.  We  overtook  the  housekeeper  in  the 
last  room  of  the  suite,  a  small,  unused  boudoir,  over  the 
chimney-piece  of  which  hung  a  noble  portrait  of  a  young  man 
in  a  powdered  wig  and  a  brocaded  waistcoat.  I  was  im 
mediately  struck  with  his  resemblance  to  my  companion. 

"This  is  Mr.  Clement  Searle,  Mr.  Searle's  great-uncle, 
by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,"  quoth  the  housekeeper.  "He  died 
young,  poor  gentleman.  He  perished  at  sea,  going  to 
America." 

"He's  the  young  buck,"  I  said,  "who  brought  the  majolica 
out  of  Italy." 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  65 

"Indeed,  sir,  I  believe  he  did,"  said  the  housekeeper,  star 
ing. 

"He's  the  image  of  you,  Searle,"  I  murmured. 

"He's  wonderfully  like  the  gentleman,  saving  his  presence,** 
said  the  housekeeper. 

My  friend  stood  gazing.  "Clement  Searle — at  sea — go 
ing  to  America — "  he  muttered.  Then  harshly,  to  the  house 
keeper,  "Why  the  deuce  did  he  go  to  America?" 

"Why,  indeed,  sir?  You  may  well  ask.  I  believe  he  had 
kinsfolk  there.  It  was  for  them  to  come  to  him." 

Searle  broke  into  a  laugh.  "It  was  for  them  to  have  come 
to  him!  Well,  well,"  he  said,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  little 
old  woman,  "they  have  come  to  him  at  last!" 

She  blushed  like  a  wrinkled  rose-leaf.  "Indeed,  sir,"  she 
said,  "I  verily  believe  that  you  are  one  of  us!" 

"My  name  is  the  name  of  that  lovely  youth,"  Searle  went 
on.  "Kinsman,  I  salute  you!  Attend!"  And  he  grasped 
me  by  the  arm.  "I  have  an  idea!  He  perished  at  sea.  His 
spirit  came  ashore  and  wandered  forlorn  till  it  got  lodgment 
again  in  my  poor  body.  In  my  poor  body  it  has  lived,  home 
sick,  these  forty  years,  shaking  its  rickety  cage,  urging  me, 
stupid,  to  carry  it  back  to  the  scenes  of  its  youth.  And  I 
never  knew  what  was  the  matter  with  me!  Let  me  exhale 
my  spirit  here!" 

The  housekeeper  essayed  a  timorous  smile.  The  scene 
was  embarrassing.  My  confusion  was  not  allayed  when  I 
suddenly  perceived  in  the  doorway  the  figure  of  a  lady. 
"Miss  Searle!"  whispered  the  housekeeper.  My  first  im 
pression  of  Miss  Searle  was  that  she  was  neither  young  nor 
beautiful.  She  stood  with  a  timid  air  on  the  threshold,  pale, 
trying  to  smile,  and  twirling  my  card  in  her  fingers.  I  im 
mediately  bowed.  Searle,  I  think,  gazed  marvelling. 

"If  I  am  not  mistaken,"  said  the  lady,  "one  of  you  gentle 
men  is  Mr.  Clement  Searle." 

"My  friend  is  Mr.  Clement  Searle,"  I  replied.  "Allow  me 
to  add  that  I  alone  am  responsible  for  your  having  received 
his  name." 

"I  should  have  been  sorry  not  to  receive  it,"  said  Miss 


66     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

Searle,  beginning  to  blush.  "Your  being  from  America  has 
led  me  to — to  interrupt  you." 

"The  interruption,  madam,  has  been  on  our  part.  And 
with  just  that  excuse — that  we  are  from  America." 

Miss  Searle,  while  I  spoke,  had  fixed  her  eyes  on  my 
friend,  as  he  stood  silent  beneath  Sir  Joshua's  portrait.  The 
housekeeper,  amazed  and  mystified,  took  a  liberty.  "Heaven 
preserve  us,  Miss!  It's  your  great-uncle's  picture  come  to 
life." 

"I'm  not  mistaken,  then/'  said  Miss  Searle.  "We  are 
distantly  related."  She  had  the  aspect  of  an  extremely 
modest  woman.  She  was  evidently  embarrassed  at  having  to 
proceed  unassisted  in  her  overture.  Searle  eyed  her  with 
gentle  wonder  from  head  to  foot.  I  fancied  I  read  his 
thoughts.  This,  then,  was  Miss  Searle,  his  maiden-cousin, 
prospective  heiress  of  these  manorial  acres  and  treasures. 
She  was  a  person  of  about  thirty-three  years  of  age,  taller 
than  most  women,  with  health  and  strength  in  the  rounded 
amplitude  of  her  shape.  She  had  a  small  blue  eye,  a  mas 
sive  chignon  of  yellow  hair,  and  a  mouth  at  once  broad  and 
comely.  She  was  dressed  in  a  lustreless  black  satin  gown, 
with  a  short  train.  Around  her  neck  she  wore  a  blue  silk 
handkerchief,  and  over  this  handkerchief,  in  many  convolu 
tions,  a  string  of  amber  beads.  Her  appearance  was  singular; 
she  was  large,  yet  not  imposing;  girlish,  yet  mature.  Her 
glance  and  accent,  in  addressing  us,  were  simple,  too  simple, 
Searle,  I  think,  had  been  fancying  some  proud  cold  beauty 
of  five-and-twenty ;  he  was  relieved  at  finding  the  lady  timid 
and  plain.  His  person  was  suddenly  illumined  with  an  old 
disused  gallantry. 

"We  are  distant  cousins,  I  believe.  I  am  happy  to  claim 
a  relationship  which  you  are  so  good  as  to  remember.  I 
had  not  in  the  least  counted  on  your  doing  so." 

"Perhaps  I  have  done  wrong,"  and  Miss  Searle  blushed 
anew  and  smiled.  "But  I  have  always  known  of  there 
being  people  of  our  blood  in  America,  and  I  have  often 
wondered  and  asked  about  them;  without  learning  much, 
however.  To-day,  when  this  card  was  brought  me  and  I 
knew  of  a  Clement  Searle  wandering  about  the  house  like  a 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  67 

stranger,  I  felt  as  if  I  ought  to  do  something.  I  hardly  knew 
what !  My  brother  is  in  London.  I  have  done  what  I  think 
he  would  have  done.  Welcome,  as  a  cousin."  And  with  a 
gesture  at  once  frank  and  shy,  she  put  out  her  hand. 

"I'm  welcome  indeed,"  said  Searle,  taking  it,  "if  he  would 
have  done  it  half  as  graciously." 

"You've  seen  the  show,"  Miss  Searle  went  on.  "Perhaps 
now  you'll  have  some  lunch."  We  followed  her  into  a  small 
breakfast-room,  where  a  deep  bay-window  opened  on  the 
mossy  flags  of  the  great  terrace.  Here,  for  some  moments,  she 
remained  silent  and  shy,  in  the  manner  of  a  person  resting 
from  a  great  effort.  Searle,  too,  was  formal  and  reticent,  so 
that  I  had  to  busy  myself  with  providing  small-talk.  It  was 
of  course  easy  to  descant  on  the  beauties  of  park  and  mansion. 
Meanwhile  I  observed  our  hostess.  She  had  small  beauty  and 
scanty  grace;  her  dress  was  out  of  taste  and  out  of  season; 
yet  she  pleased  me  well.  There  was  about  her  a  sturdy 
sweetness,  a  homely  flavor  of  the  sequestered  chatelaine  of 
feudal  days.  To  be  so  simple  amid  this  massive  luxury,  so 
mellow  and  yet  so  fresh,  so  modest  and  yet  so  placid,  told  of 
just  the  spacious  leisure  in  which  I  had  fancied  human  life 
to  be  steeped  in  many  a  park-circled  home.  Miss  Searle  was 
to  the  Belle  au  Bois  Dormant  what  a  fact  is  to  a  fairy-tale — 
an  interpretation  to  a  myth.  We,  on  our  side,  were  to  our 
hostess  objects  of  no  light  scrutiny.  The  best  possible  English 
breeding  still  marvels  visibly  at  the  native  American.  Miss 
Searle's  wonderment  was  guileless  enough  to  have  been  more 
overt  and  yet  inoffensive;  there  was  no  taint  of  offence  in 
deed  in  her  utterance  of  the  unvarying  amenity  that  she  had 
met  an  American  family  on  the  Lake  of  Como  whom  she 
would  have  almost  taken  to  be  English. 

"If  I  lived  here,"  I  said,  "I  think  I  should  hardly  need 
to  go  away,  even  to  the  Lake  of  Como." 

"You  might  perhaps  get  tired  of  it.  And  then  the  Lake  of 
Como!  If  I  could  only  go  abroad  again!" 

"You  have  been  but  once?" 

"Only  once.  Three  years  ago  my  brother  took  me  to 
Switzerland.  We  thought  it  extremely  beautiful.  Except 
for  this  journey,  I  have  always  lived  here.  Here  I  was  born. 


68    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

It's  a  dear  old  place,  indeed,  and  I  know  it  well.  Sometimes 
I  fancy  I'm  a  little  tired."  And  on  my  asking  her  how  she 
spent  her  time  and  what  society  she  saw,  "It's  extremely 
quiet,"  she  went  on,  proceeding  by  short  steps  and  simple 
statements,  in  the  manner  of  a  person  summoned  for  the 
first  time  to  define  her  situation  and  enumerate  the  elements 
of  her  life.  "We  see  very  few  people.  I  don't  think  there 
are  many  nice  people  hereabouts.  At  least  we  don't  know 
them.  Our  own  family  is  very  small.  My  brother  cares  for 
little  else  but  riding  and  books.  He  had  a  great  sorrow 
ten  years  ago.  He  lost  his  wife  and  his  only  son,  a  dear  little 
boy,  who  would  have  succeeded  him  in  the  estates.  Do  you 
know  that  I'm  likely  to  have  them  now?  Poor  me!  Since 
his  loss  my  brother  has  preferred  to  be  quite  alone.  I'm  sorry 
he's  away.  But  you  must  wait  till  he  comes  back.  I  expect 
him  in  a  day  or  two."  She  talked  more  and  more,  with  a 
rambling  earnest  vapidity,  about  her  circumstances,  her 
solitude,  her  bad  eyes,  so  that  she  couldn't  read,  her  flowers, 
her  ferns,  her  dogs,  and  the  curate,  recently  inducted  by  her 
brother  and  warranted  sound  orthodox,  who  had  lately  begun 
to  light  his  altar  candles;  pausing  every  now  and  then  to 
blush  in  self  surprise,  and  yet  moving  steadily  from  point  to 
point  in  the  deepening  excitement  of  temptation  and  occa 
sion.  Of  all  the  old  things  I  had  seen  in  England,  this  mind 
of  Miss  Searle's  seemed  to  me  the  oldest,  the  quaintest,  the 
most  ripely  verdant;  so  fenced  and  protected  by  convention 
and  precedent  and  usage;  so  passive  and  mild  and  docile. 
I  felt  as  if  I  were  talking  with  a  potential  heroine  of  Miss 
Burney.  As  she  talked,  she  rested  her  dull,  kind  eyes  upon 
her  kinsman  with  a  sort  of  fascinated  stare.  At  last,  "Did 
you  mean  to  go  away,"  she  demanded,  "without  asking  for 
us?" 

"I  had  thought  it  over,  Miss  Searle,  and  had  determined 
not  to  trouble  you.  You  have  shown  me  how  unfriendly  I 
should  have  been." 

"But  you  knew  of  the  place  being  ours  and  of  our  relation 
ship?" 

"Just  so.    It  was  because  of  these  things  that  I  came  down 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  69 

here — because  of  them,  almost,  that  I  came  to  England.  I 
have  always  liked  to  think  of  them." 

"You  merely  wished  to  look,  then?  We  don't  pretend 
to  be  much  to  look  at." 

"You  don't  know  what  you  are,  Miss  Searle,"  said  my 
friend,  gravely. 

"You  like  the  old  place,  then?" 

Searle  looked  at  her  in  silence.  "If  I  could  only  tell  you," 
he  said  at  last. 

"Do  tell  me !    You  must  come  and  stay  with  us." 

Searle  began  to  laugh.  "Take  care,  take  care,"  he  cried. 
"I  should  surprise  you.  At  least  I  should  bore  you.  I  should 
never  leave  you." 

"O,  you'd  get  homesick  for  America!" 

At  this  Searle  laughed  the  more.  "By  the  way,"  he  cried 
to  me,  "tell  Miss  Searle  about  America!"  And  he  stepped 
through  the  window  out  upon  the  terrace,  followed  by  two 
beautiful  dogs,  a  pointer  and  a  young  stag-hound,  who  from 
the  moment  we  came  in  had  established  the  fondest  relation 
with  him.  Miss  Searle  looked  at  him  as  he  went,  with  a 
certain  tender  wonder  in  her  eye.  I  read  in  her  glance,  me- 
thought,  that  she  was  interested.  I  suddenly  recalled  the  last 
words  I  had  heard  spoken  by  my  friend's  adviser  in  Lon 
don:  "Instead  of  dying  you'd  better  marry."  If  Miss  Searle 
could  be  gently  manipulated.  O  for  a  certain  divine  tact! 
Something  assured  me  that  her  heart  was  virgin  soil;  that 
sentiment  had  never  bloomed  there.  If  I  could  but  sow  the 
seed !  There  lurked  within  her  the  perfect  image  of  one  of 
the  patient  wives  of  old. 

"He  has  lost  his  heart  to  England,"  I  said.  "He  ought 
to  have  been  borne  here." 

"And  yet,"  said  Miss  Searle,  "he's  not  in  the  least  an 
Englishman." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"I  hardly  know  how.  I  never  talked  with  a  foreigner 
before;  but  he  looks  and  talks  as  I  have  fancied  foreigners." 

"Yes,  he's  foreign  enough!" 

"Is  he  married?" 

"He's  a  widower — without  children." 


70    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"Has  he  property?" 

"Very  little. 

"But  enough  to  travel?" 

I  meditated.  "He  has  not  expected  to  travel  far,"  I  said 
-at  last.  "You  know  he's  in  poor  health." 

"Poor  gentleman !    So  I  fancied." 

"He's  better,  though,  than  he  thinks.  He  came  here  be 
cause  he  wanted  to  see  your  place  before  he  dies." 

"Poor  fellow!"  And  I  fancied  I  perceived  in  her  eye  the 
lustre  of  a  rising  tear.  "And  he  was  going  off  without  my 
seeing  him?" 

"He's  a  modest  man,  you  see." 

"He's  very  much  of  a  gentleman." 

"Assuredly!" 

At  this  moment  we  heard  on  the  terrace  a  loud,  harsh  cry. 
"It's  the  great  peacock!"  said  Miss  Searle,  stepping  to  the 
window  and  passing  out.  I  followed  her.  Below  us  on  the 
terrace,  leaning  on  the  parapet,  stood  our  friend,  with  his 
arm  round  the  neck  of  the  pointer.  Before  him,  on  the 
grand  walk,  strutted  a  splendid  peacock,  with  rufflled  neck 
and  expanded  tail.  The  other  dog  had  apparently  indulged 
in  a  momentary  attempt  to  abash  the  gorgeous  fowl,  but  at 
Searle 's  voice  he  had  bounded  back  to  the  terrace  and  leaped 
upon  the  parapet,  where  he  now  stood  licking  his  new  friend's 
face.  The  scene  had  a  beautiful  old-time  air:  the  peacock 
flaunting  in  the  foreground,  like  the  very  genius  of  antique 
gardenry;  the  broad  terrace,  which  flattered  an  innate  taste 
of  mine  for  all  deserted  promenades  to  which  people  may  have 
adjourned  from  formal  dinners,  to  drink  coffee  in  old  Sevres, 
and  where  the  stiff  brocade  of  women's  dresses  may  have 
rustled  autumnal  leaves;  and  far  around  us,  with  one  leafy 
circle  melting  into  another,  the  timbered  acres  of  the  park. 
"The  very  beasts  have  made  him  welcome,"  I  said,  as  we  re 
joined  our  companion. 

"The  peacock  lias  done  for  you,  Mr.  Searle,"  said  his 
cousin,  "what  he  does  only  for  very  great  people.  A  year  ago 
there  came  here  a  duchess  to  see  my  brother.  I  don't  think 
that  since  then  he  has  spread  his  tail  as  wide  for  any  one  else 
by  a  dozen  feathers." 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  71 

"It's  not  alone  the  peacock,"  said  Searle.  "Just  now  there 
came  slipping  across  my  path  a  little  green  lizard,  the  first 
I  ever  saw,  the  lizard  of  literature !  And  if  you  have  a  ghost, 
broad  daylight  though  it  be,  I  expect  to  see  him  here.  Do 
you  know  the  annals  of  your  house,  Miss  Searle?" 

"O  dear,  no!  You  must  ask  my  brother  for  all  those 
things." 

"You  ought  to  have  a  book  full  of  legends  and  traditions. 
You  ought  to  have  loves  and  murders  and  mysteries  by  the 
roomful.  I  count  upon  it." 

"O  Mr.  Searle.  We  have  always  been  a  very  well-behaved 
family.  Nothing  out  of  the  way  has  ever  happened,  I  think." 

"Nothing  out  of  the  way?  O  horrors!  We  have  done 
better  than  that  in  America.  Why,  I  myself!" — and  he  gazed 
at  her  a  moment  with  a  gleam  of  malice,  and  then  broke  into 
a  laugh.  "Suppose  I  should  turn  out  a  better  Searle  than 
you?  Better  than  you,  nursed  here  in  romance  and  pictur- 
esqueness.  Come,  don't  disappoint  me.  You  have  some  his 
tory  among  you  all,  you  have  some  poetry.  I  have  been 
famished  all  my  days  for  these  things.  Do  yo  understand? 
Ah,  you  can't  understand!  Tell  me  something!  When  I 
think  of  what  must  have  happened  here!  when  I  think  of 
the  lovers  who  must  have  strolled  on  this  terrace  and  wan 
dered  through  those  glades!  of  all  the  figures  and  passions 
and  purposes  that  must  have  haunted  these  walls!  of  the 
births,  the  deaths,  the  joys  and  sufferings,  the  young  hopes 
and  the  old  regrets,  the  intense  experience — "  And  here  he 
faltered  a  moment,  with  the  increase  of  his  vehemence.  The 
gleam  in  his  eye,  which  I  have  called  a  gleam  of  malice,  had 
settled  into  a  deep,  unnatural  light.  I  began  to  fear  he  had 
become  over-excited.  But  he  went  on  with  redoubled  pas 
sion.  "To  see  it  all  evoked  before  me,"  he  cried,  "if  the 
Devil  alone  could  do  it,  I'd  make  a  bargain  with  the  Devil  ( 
O  Miss  Searle,  I'm  a  most  unhappy  man!" 

"O  dear,  O  dear!"  said  Miss  Searle. 
"Look   at   that   window,   that   blessed   oriel!"     And   he 
pointed  to  a  small,  protruding  casement  above  us,  relieved 
against  the  purple  brick-work,  framed  in  chiselled  stone,  and 
curtained  with  ivy. 


72     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"It's  my  room,"  said  Miss  Searle. 

"Of  course  it's  a  woman's  room.  Think  of  the  forgotten 
loveliness  which  has  peeped  from  that  window;  think  of  the 
old-time  women's  lives  which  have  known  chiefly  that  out 
look  on  this  bosky  world.  O  gentle  cousins !  And  you,  Miss 
Searle,  you're  one  of  them  yet."  And  he  marched  towards 
her  and  took  her  great  white  hand.  She  surrendered  it, 
blushing  to  her  eyes,  and  pressing  the  other  hand  to  her  breast. 
"You're  a  woman  of  the  past.  You're  nobly  simple.  It  has 
been  a  romance  to  see  you.  It  doesn't  matter  what  I  say  to 
you.  You  didn't  know  me  yesterday,  you'll  not  know  me 
to-morrow.  Let  me  to-day  do  a  mad,  sweet  thing.  Let  me 
fancy  you  the  soul  of  all  the  dead  women  who  have  trod  these 
terrace-flags,  which  lie  here  like  sepulchral  tablets  in  the 
pavement  of  a  church.  Let  me  say  I  worship  you!"  And  he 
raised  her  hand  to  his  lips.  She  gently  withdrew  it,  and  for 
a  moment  averted  her  face.  Meeting  her  eyes  for  the  next 
moment,  I  saw  that  they  were  filled  with  tears.  The  Belle 
au  Bois  Dormant  was  awake. 

There  followed  an  embarrassed  pause.  An  issue  was 
suddenly  presented  by  the  appearance  of  the  butler  bearing  a 
letter.  "A  telegram,  Miss,"  he  said. 

"Dear  me!"  cried  Miss  Searle,  "I  can't  open  a  telegram. 
Cousin,  help  me." 

Searle  took  the  missive,  opened  it,  and  read  aloud.  "I 
shall  be  home  to  dinner.  Keep  the  American." 

II 

"Keep  the  American!"  Miss  Searle,  in  compliance  with 
the  injunction  conveyed  in  her  brother's  telegram  (with  some 
thing  certainly  of  telegraphic  curtness),  lost  no  time  in  ex 
pressing  the  pleasure  it  would  give  her  to  have  my  companion 
remain.  "Really  you  must,"  she  said;  and  forthwith  re 
paired  to  the  housekeeper,  to  give  orders  for  the  preparation 
of  a  room. 

"How  in  the  world,"  asked  Searle,  "did  he  know  of  my 
being  here?" 

"He  learned,  probably,"  I  expounded,  "from  his  solicitor 
of  the  visit  of  your  friend  Simmons.  Simmons  and  the 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  73 

solicitor  must  have  had  another  interview  since  your  arrival 
in  England.  Simmons,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  has  com 
municated  to  the  solicitor  your  journey  to  this  neighbor 
hood,  and  Mr.  Searle,  learning  this,  has  immediately  taken 
for  granted  that  you  have  formally  presented  youself  to  his 
sister.  He's  hospitably  inclined,  and  he  wishes  her  to  do 
the  proper  thing  by  you.  More  perhaps!  I  have  my  little 
theory  that  he  is  the  very  Phcenix  of  usurpers,  that  his  nobler 
sense  has  been  captivated  by  the  exposition  of  the  men  of 
law,  and  that  he  means  gracefully  to  surrender  you  your 
fractional  interest  in  the  estate." 

"I  give  it  up !"  said  my  friend,  musing.  "Come  what  come 
will!" 

"You  of  course,"  said  Miss  Searle,  reappearing  and  turn 
ing  to  me,  "are  included  in  my  brother's  invitation.  I  have 
bespoken  your  lodging  as  well.  Your  luggage  shall  im 
mediately  be  sent  for." 

It  was  arranged  that  I  in  person  should  be  driven  over  to 
our  little  inn,  and  that  I  should  return  with  our  effects  in 
time  to  meet  Mr.  Searle  at  dinner.  On  my  arrival,  several 
hours  later,  I  was  immediately  conducted  to  my  room.  The 
servant  pointed  out  to  me  that  it  communicated  by  a  door 
and  a  private  passage  with  that  of  my  companion.  I  made 
my  way  along  this  passage — a  low,  narrow  corridor,  with  a 
long  latticed  casement,  through  which  there  streamed,  upon 
a  series  of  grotesquely  sculptured  oaken  closets  and  cup 
boards,  the  lurid  animating  glow  of  the  western  sun — 
knocked  at  his  door,  and,  getting  no  answer,  opened  it.  In 
an  arm-chair  by  the  open  window  sat  my  friend,  sleeping 
with  arms  and  legs  relaxed  and  head  placidly  reverted.  It 
was  a  great  relief  to  find  him  resting  from  his  rhapsodies,  and 
I  watched  him  for  some  moments  before  waking  him.  There 
was  a  faint  glow  of  color  in  his  cheek  and  a  light  parting 
of  his  lips,  as  in  a  smile ;  something  nearer  to  mental  sound 
ness  than  I  had  yet  seen  in  him.  It  was  almost  happiness,  it 
was  almost  health.  I  laid  my  hand  on  his  arm  and  gently 
shook  it.  He  opened  his  eyes,  gazed  at  me  a  moment, 
vaguely  recognizing  me,  then  closed  them  again.  "Let  me 
dream,  let  me  dream !"  he  said. 


74     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"What  are  you  dreaming  about?" 

A  moment  passed  before  his  answer  came.  "About  a  tall 
woman  in  a  quaint  black  dress,  with  yellow  hair,  and  a  sweet, 
sweet  smile,  and  a  soft,  low,  delicious  voice  1  I'm  in  love 
with  her." 

"It's  better  to  see  her,"  I  said,  "than  to  dream  about  her. 
Get  up  and  dress,  and  we  shall  go  down  to  dinner  and  meet 
her." 

"Dinner — dinner — "  And  he  gradually  opened  his  eyes 
again.  "Yes,  upon  my  word,  I  shall  dine!" 

"You're  a  well  man!"  I  said,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet.  "You'll 
live  to  bury  Mr.  Simmons."  He  had  spent  the  hours  of  my 
absence,  he  told  me,  with  Miss  Searle.  They  had  strolled 
together  over  the  park  and  through  the  gardens  and  green 
houses.  "You  must  already  be  intimate!"  I  said,  smiling. 

"She  is  intimate  with  me,"  he  answered.  "Heaven  knows 
what  rigmarole  I've  treated  her  to!"  They  had  parted  an 
hour  ago,  since  when,  he  believed,  her  brother  had  arrived. 

The  slow-fading  twilight  still  abode  in  the  great  drawing- 
room  as  we  entered  it.  The  housekeeper  had  told  us  that 
this  apartment  was  rarely  used,  there  being  a  smaller  and 
more  convenient  one  for  the  same  needs.  It  seemed  now,  how 
ever,  to  be  occupied  in  my  comrade's  honor.  At  the  farther 
end  of  it,  rising  to  the  roof,  like  a  ducal  tomb  in  a  cathedral, 
was  a  great  chimney-piece  of  chiselled  white  marble,  yel 
lowed  by  time,  in  which  a  light  fire  was  crackling.  Before 
the  fire  stood  a  small  short  man  with  his  hands  behind  him; 
near  him  stood  Miss  Searle,  so  transformed  by  her  dress 
that  at  first  I  scarcely  knew  her.  There  was  in  our  entrance 
and  reception  something  profoundly  chilling  and  solemn.  We 
moved  in  silence  up  the  long  room.  Mr.  Searle  advanced 
slowly  a  dozen  steps  to  meet  us.  His  sister  stood  motion 
less.  I  was  conscious  of  her  masking  her  visage  with  a  large 
white  tinselled  fan,  and  of  her  eyes,  grave  and  expanded, 
watching  us  intently  over  the  top  of  it.  The  master  of  Lock- 
ley  Park  grasped  in  silence  the  proffered  hand  of  his  kins 
man,  and  eyed  him  from  head  to  foot,  suppressing,  I  think, 
a  start  of  surprise  at  his  resemblance  to  Sir  Joshua's  por 
trait.  "This  is  a  happy  day!"  he  said.  And  then  turning  to 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  75 

me  with  a  bow,  "My  cousin's  friend  is  my  friend."     Miss 
Searle  lowered  her  fan. 

The  first  thing  that  struck  me  in  Mr.  Searle's  appearance 
was  his  short  and  meagre  stature,  which  was  less  by  half  a 
head  than  that  of  his  sister.  The  second  was  the  preter 
natural  redness  of  his  hair  and  beard.  They  intermingled 
over  his  ears  and  surrounded  his  head  like  a  huge  lurid  nim 
bus.  His  face  was  pale  and  attenuated,  like  the  face  of  a 
scholar,  a  dilettante,  a  man  who  lives  in  a  library,  bending 
over  books  and  prints  and  medals.  At  a  distance  it  had  an 
oddly  innocent  and  youthful  look;  but  on  a  nearer  view  it  re 
vealed  a  number  of  finely  etched  and  scratched  wrinkles,  of  a 
singularly  aged  and  cunning  effect.  It  was  the  complexion  of 
a  man  of  sixty.  His  nose  was  arched  and  delicate,  identical 
almost  with  the  nose  of  my  friend.  In  harmony  with  the 
effect  of  his  hair  was  that  of  his  eyes,  which  were  large  and 
deep-set,  with  a  sort  of  vulpine  keenness  and  redness,  but 
full  of  temper  and  spirit.  Imagine  this  physiognomy — grave 
and  solemn  in  aspect,  grotesquely  solemn,  almost,  in  spite  of 
the  bushy  brightness  in  which  it  was  encased — set  in  motion 
by  a  smile  which  seemed  to  whisper  terribly,  "I  am  the  smile, 
the  sole  and  official,  the  grin  to  command,"  and  you  will  have 
an  imperfect  notion  of  the  remarkable  presence  of  our  host; 
something  better  worth  seeing  and  knowing,  I  fancied  as  I 
covertly  scrutinized  him,  than  anything  our  excursion  had 
yet  introduced  us  to.  Of  how  thoroughly  I  had  entered  into 
sympathy  with  my  companion  and  how  effectually  I  had  asso 
ciated  my  sensibilities  with  his,  I  had  small  suspicion  until, 
within  the  short  five  minutes  which  preceded  the  announce 
ment  of  dinner,  I  distinctly  perceived  him  place  himself,  mor 
ally  speaking,  on  the  defensive.  To  neither  of  us  was  Mr. 
Searle,  as  the  Italians  would  say,  sympathetic.  I  might  have 
fancied  from  her  attitude  that  Miss  Searle  apprehended  our 
thoughts.  A  signal  change  had  been  wrought  in  her  since 
the  morning,  during  the  hour,  indeed  (as  I  read  in  the  light 
of  the  wondering  glance  he  cast  at  her)  that  had  elapsed 
since  her  parting  with  her  cousin.  She  had  not  yet  recovered 
from  some  great  agitation.  Her  face  was  pale  and  her  eyes 
red  with  weeping.  These  tragic  betrayals  gave  an  unexpected 


76     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

dignity  to  her  aspect,  which  was  further  enhanced  by  the  rare 
picturesqueness  of  her  dress. 

Whether  it  was  taste  or  whether  it  was  accident,  I  know  not ; 
but  Miss  Searle,  as  she  stood  there,  half  in  the  cool  twlight, 
half  in  the  arrested  glow  of  the  fire  as  it  spent  itself  in  the 
vastness  of  its  marble  cave,  was  a  figure  for  a  cunning  painter. 
She  was  dressed  in  the  faded  splendor  of  a  beautiful  tissue 
of  combined  and  blended  silk  and  crape  of  a  tender  sea-green 
color,  festooned  and  garnished  and  puffed  into  a  massive 
bouillonnement ;  a  piece  of  millinery,  which,  though  it  must 
have  witnessed  a  number  of  stately  dinners,  preserved  still  an 
air  of  admirable  elegance.  Over  her  white  shoulders  she 
wore  an  ancient  web  of  the  most  precious  and  venerable  lace, 
and  about  her  rounded  throat  a  necklace  of  heavy  pearls.  I 
went  with  her  in  to  dinner,  and  Mr.  Searle,  following  with 
my  friend,  took  his  arm  (as  the  latter  afterwards  told  me) 
and  pretended  sportively  to  conduct  him.  As  dinner  pro 
ceeded,  the  feeling  grew  within  me  that  a  drama  had  begun  to 
be  played  in  which  the  three  persons  before  me  were  actors, 
each  of  a  most  exacting  part.  The  part  of  my  friend,  how 
ever,  seemed  the  most  heavily  charged,  and  I  was  filled  with 
a  strong  desire  that  he  should  summon  his  shadowy  facul 
ties  to  obey  his  shadowy  will.  The  poor  fellow  sat  playing 
solemnly  at  self-esteem.  With  Miss  Searle,  credulous,  pas 
sive,  and  pitying,  he  had  finally  flung  aside  all  vanity  and 
propriety,  and  shown  her  the  bottom  of  his  fantastic  heart. 
But  with  our  host  there  might  be  no  talking  of  nonsense  nor 
taking  of  liberties;  there  and  then,  if  ever,  sat  a  double-dis 
tilled  conservative,  breathing  the  fumes  of  hereditary  privi 
lege  and  security.  For  an  hour,  then,  I  saw  my  poor  friend 
turn  faithfully  about  to  speak  graciously  of  barren  things. 
He  was  to  prove  himself  a  sound  American,  so  that  his  relish 
of  this  elder  world  might  seem  purely  disinterested.  What 
his  kinsman  had  expected  to  find  him,  I  know  not;  but  with 
all  his  finely  adjusted  urbanity,  he  was  unable  to  repress  a 
shade  of  annoyance  at  finding  him  likely  to  speak  graciously 
at  all.  Mr.  Searle  was  not  the  man  to  show  his  hand,  but 
I  think  his  best  card  had  been  a  certain  implicit  confidence 
that  this  exotic  parasite  would  hardly  have  good  manners. 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  77 

Our  host,  with  great  decency,  led  the  conversation  to  America, 
talking  of  it  rather  as  if  it  were  some  fabled  planet,  alien  to 
the  British  orbit,  lately  proclaimed  indeed  to  have  the  pro 
portion  of  atmospheric  gases  required  to  support  animal  life, 
but  not,  save  under  cover  of  a  liberal  afterthought,  to  be 
admitted  into  one's  regular  conception  of  things.  I,  for  my 
part,  felt  nothing  but  regret  that  the  spheric  smoothness  of 
his  universe  should  be  strained  to  cracking  by  the  intrusion 
of  our  square  shoulders. 

"I  knew  in  a  general  way,"  said  Mr.  Searle,  "of  my  having 
relations  in  America ;  but  you  know  one  hardly  realizes  those 
things.  I  could  hardly  more  have  imagined  people  of  our 
blood  there,  than  I  could  have  imagined  being  there  myself. 
There  was  a  man  I  knew  at  college,  a  very  odd  fellow,  a 
nice  fellow  too;  he  and  I  were  rather  cronies;  I  think  he 
afterwards  went  to  America;  to  the  Argentine  Republic,  I 
believe.  Do  you  know  the  Argentine  Republic?  What  an 
extraordinary  name,  by  the  way !  And  then,  you  know,  there 
was  that  great-uncle  of  mine  whom  Sir  Joshua  painted.  He 
went  to  America,  but  he  never  got  there.  He  was  lost  at  sea. 
You  look  enough  like  him  to  have  one  fancy  he  did  get  there, 
and  that  he  has  lived  along  till  now.  If  you  are  he,  you've 
not  done  a  wise  thing  to  show  yourself  here.  He  left  a  bad 
name  behind  him.  There's  a  ghost  who  comes  sobbing  about 
the  house  every  now  and  then,  the  ghost  of  one  against  whom 
he  wrought  a  great  evil!" 

"O  brother!"  cried  Miss  Searle,  in  simple  horror. 

"Of  course  you  know  nothing  of  such  things,"  said  Mr. 
Searle.  "You're  too  sound  a  sleeper  to  hear  the  sobbing  of 
ghosts." 

"I'm  sure  I  should  like  immensely  to  hear  the  sobbing  of 
a  ghost!"  said  my  friend,  with  the  light  of  his  previous 
eagerness  playing  up  into  his  eyes.  "Why  does  it  sob? 
Unfold  the  wondrous  tale." 

Mr.  Searle  eyed  his  audience  for  a  moment  gaugingly;  and 
then,  as  the  French  say,  se  receuillit,  as  if  he  were  measuring 
his  own  imaginative  force. 

He  wished  to  do  justice  to  his  theme.  With  the  five  finger 
nails  of  his  left  hand  nervously  playing  against  the  tinkling 


78     THE  GREAT  MODERN,  AMERICAN  STORIES 

crystal  of  his  wineglass,  and  his  bright  eye  telling  of  a  glee 
ful  sense  that,  small  and  grotesque  as  he  sat  there,  he  was 
for  the  moment  profoundly  impressive,  he  distilled  into  our 
untutored  minds  the  sombre  legend  of  his  house.  "Mr. 
Clement  Searle,  from  all  I  gather,  was  a  young  man  of  great 
talent  but  a  weak  disposition.  His  mother  was  left  a  widow 
early  in  life,  with  two  sons,  of  whom  he  was  the  older  and 
the  more  promising.  She  educated  him  with  the  utmost  fond 
ness  and  care.  Of  course,  when  he  came  to  manhood  she 
wished  him  to  marry  well.  His  means  were  quite  sufficient 
to  enable  him  to  overlook  the  want  of  means  in  his  wife;  and 
Mrs.  Searle  selected  a  young  lady  who  possessed,  as  she  con 
ceived,  every  good  gift  save  a  fortune — a  fine,  proud,  hand 
some  girl,  the  daughter  of  an  old  friend — an  old  lover,  I 
fancy,  of  her  own.  Clement,  however,  as  it  appeared,  had 
either  chosen  otherwise  or  was  as  yet  unprepared  to  choose. 
The  young  lady  discharged  upon  him  in  vain  the  battery  of 
her  attractions ;  in  vain  his  mother  urged  her  cause.  Clement 
remained  cold,  insensible,  inflexible.  Mrs.  Searle  possessed 
a  native  force  of  which  in  its  feminine  branch  the  family 
seems  to  have  lost  the  trick.  A  proud,  passionate,  imperious 
woman,  she  had  had  great  cares  and  a  number  of  law-suits; 
they  had  given  her  a  great  will.  She  suspected  that  her  son's 
affections  were  lodged  elsewhere,  and  lodged  amiss.  Irritated 
by  his  stubborn  defiance  of  her  wishes,  she  persisted  in  her 
urgency.  The  more  she  watched  him  the  more  she  believed 
that  he  loved  in  secret.  If  he  loved  in  secret,  of  course  he 
loved  beneath  him.  He  went  about  sombre,  sullen,  and  pre 
occupied.  At  last,  with  the  fatal  indiscretion  of  an  angry 
woman,  she  threatened  to  bring  the  young  lady  of  her  choice 
— who,  by  the  way,  seems  to  have  been  no  shrinking  blossom 
• — to  stay  in  the  house.  A  stormy  scene  was  the  result.  He 
threatened  that  if  she  did  so,  he  would  leave  the  country  and 
sail  for  America.  She  probably  disbelieved  him;  she  knew 
him  to  be  weak,  but  she  overrated  his  weakness.  At  all 
events,  the  fair  rejected  arrived  and  Clement  departed.  On 
a  dark  December  day  he  took  ship  at  Southampton.  The 
two  women,  desperate  with  rage  and  sorrow,  sat  alone  in  this 
great  house,  mingling  their  tears  and  imprecations.  A  fort- 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  79 

night  later,  on  Christmas  eve,  in  the  midst  of  a  great  snow 
storm,  long  famous  in  the  country,  there  came  to  them  a 
mighty  quickening  of  their  bitterness.  A  young  woman, 
soaked  and  chilled  by  the  storm,  gained  entrance  to  the  house 
and  made  her  way  into  the  presence  of  the  mistress  and  her 
guest.  She  poured  out  her  tale.  She  was  a  poor  curate's 
daughter  of  Hereford.  Clement  Searle  had  loved  her;  loved 
her  all  too  well.  She  had  been  turned  out  in  wrath  from  her 
father's  house.  His  mother,  at  least,  might  pity  her;  if  not 
for  herself,  then  for  the  child  she  was  soon  to  bring  forth. 
The  poor  girl  had  been  a  second  time  too  trustful.  The 
women,  in  scorn,  in  horror,  with  blows,  possibly,  turned  her 
forth  again  into  the  storm.  In  the  storm  she  wandered,  and 
in  the  deep  snow  she  died.  Her  lover,  as  you  know,  perished 
in  that  hard  winter  weather  at  sea;  the  news  came  to  his 
mother  late,  but  soon  enough.  We  are  haunted  by  the 
curate's  daughter!" 

There  was  a  pause  of  some  moments.  "Ah,  well  we  may 
be!"  said  Miss  Searle,  with  a  great  pity. 

Searle  blazed  up  into  enthusiasm.  "Of  course  you  know," 
— and  suddenly  he  began  to  blush  violently, — "I  should  be 
sorry  to  claim  any  identity  with  my  faithless  namesake,  poor 
fellow.  But  I  shall  be  hugely  tickled  if  this  poor  ghost 
should  be  deceived  by  my  resemblance  and  mistake  me  for 
her  cruel  lover.  She's  welcome  to  the  comfort  of  it.  What 
one  can  do  in  the  case  I  shall  be  glad  to  do.  But  can  a  ghost 
haunt  a  ghost?  I  am  a  ghost!" 

Mr.  Searle  stared  a  moment,  and  then  smiling  superbly: 
"I  could  almost  believe  you  are!"  he  said. 

"O  brother — cousin!"  cried  Miss  Searle,  with  the  gentlest, 
yet  most  appealing  dignity,  "how  can  you  talk  so  horribly?" 

This  horrible  talk,  however,  evidently  possessed  a  potent 
magic  for  my  friend;  and  his  imagination,  chilled  for  a  while 
by  the  frigid  contact  of  his  kinsman,  began  to  glow  again 
with  its  earlrer  fire.  From  this  moment  he  ceased  to  steer  his 
cockle-shell,  to  care  what  he  said  or  how  he  said  it,  so  long 
as  he  expressed  his  passionate  satisfaction  in  the  scene  about 
him.  As  he  talked  I  ceased  even  mentally  to  protest.  I  have 
wondered  since  that  I  should  not  have  resented  the  exhibition 


8o     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

of  so  rank  and  florid  an  egotism.  But  a  great  frankness  for 
the  time  makes  its  own  law,  and  a  great  passion  its  own 
channel.  There  was,  moreover,  an  immense  sweetness  in  the 
manner  of  my  friend's  speech.  Free  alike  from  either  adula 
tion  or  envy,  the  very  soul  of  it  was  a  divine  apprehension, 
an  imaginative  mastery,  free  as  the  flight  of  Ariel,  of  the 
poetry  of  his  companion's  situation  and  of  the  contrasted 
prosiness  of  their  attitude. 

"How  does  the  look  of  age  come?"  he  demanded,  at  des 
sert.  "Does  it  come  of  itself,  unobserved,  unrecorded,  un 
measured  ?  Or  do  you  woo  it  and  set  baits  and  traps  for  it, 
and  watch  it  like  the  dawning  brownness  of  a  meerschaum 
pipe,  and  nail  it  down  when  it  appears,  just  where  it  peeps 
out,  and  light  a  votive  taper  beneath  it  and  give  thanks  to  it 
daily?  Or  do  you  forbid  it  and  fight  it  and  resist  it,  and 
yet  feel  it  settling  and  deepening  about  you,  as  irrestible  as 
fate?" 

"What  the  deuce  is  the  man  talking  about?"  said  the  smile 
of  our  host. 

"I  found  a  gray  hair  this  morning,"  said  Miss  Searle. 

"Good  heavens!     I  hope  you  respected  it,"  cried  Searle. 

"I  look  at  it  for  a  long  time  in  my  little  glass,"  said  his 
cousin,  simply. 

"Miss  Searle,  for  many  years  to  come,  can  afford  to  be 
amused  at  gray  hairs,"  I  said. 

"Ten  years  hence  I  shall  be  forty-three,"  she  answered. 

"That's  my  age,"  said  Searle.  "If  I  had  only  come  here 
ten  years  ago!  I  should  have  had  more  time  to  enjoy  the 
feast,  but  I  should  have  had  less  of  an  appetite.  I  needed  to 
get  famished  for  it." 

"Why  did  you  wait  for  the  starving  point?"  asked  Mr. 
Searle.  "To  think  of  these  ten  years  that  we  might  have  been 
enjoying  you!"  And  at  the  thought  of  these  wasted  ten  years 
Mr.  Searle  broke  into  a  violent  nervous  laugh. 

"I  always  had  a  notion, — a  stupid,  vulgar  notion,  if  there 
ever  was  one, — that  to  come  abroad  properly  one  ought  to 
have  a  pot  of  money.  My  pot  was  too  nearly  empty.  At  last 
I  came  with  my  empty  pot!" 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  81 

Mr.  Searle  coughed  with  an  air  of  hesitation.  "You're  a 
— you're  in  limited  circumstances?" 

My  friend  apparently  was  vastly  tickled  to  have  his  bleak 
situation  called  by  so  soft  a  name.  "Limited  circumstances!" 
he  cried  with  a  long,  light  laugh;  "I'm  in  no  circumstances 
at  all!" 

"Upon  my  word!"  murmured  Mr.  Searle,  with  an  air  of 
being  divided  between  his  sense  of  the  indecency  and  his  sense 
of  the  rarity  of  a  gentleman  taking  just  that  tone  about  his 
affairs.  "Well — well — well!"  he  added,  in  a  voice  which 
might  have  meant  everything  or  nothing;  and  proceeded,  with 
a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  to  finish  a  glass  of  wine.  His  sparkling 
eye,  as  he  drank,  encountered  mine  over  the  top  of  his  glass, 
and,  for  a  moment,  we  exchanged  a  long  deep  glance — a 
glance  so  keen  as  to  leave  a  slight  embarrassment  on  the  face 
of  each.  "And  you,"  said  Mr.  Searle,  by  way  of  carrying  it 
off,  "how  about  your  circumstances?" 

"O,  his,"  said  my  friend,  "his  are  unlimited!  He  could 
buy  up  Lockley  Park!"  He  had  drunk,  I  think,  a  rather 
greater  number  of  glasses  of  port — I  admit  that  the  port  was 
infinitely  drinkable — than  was  to  have  been  desired  in  the 
interest  of  perfect  self-control.  He  was  rapidly  drifting 
beyond  any  tacit  dissuasion  of  mine.  A  certain  feverish 
harshness  in  his  glance  and  voice  warned  me  that  to  attempt 
to  direct  him  would  simply  irritate  him.  As  we  rose  from  the 
table  he  caught  my  troubled  look.  Passing  his  arm  for  a 
moment  into  mine,  "This  is  the  great  night!"  he  whispered. 
"The  night  of  fatality,  the  night  of  destiny!" 

Mr.  Searle  had  caused  the  whole  lower  region  of  the  house 
to  be  thrown  open  and  a  multitude  of  lights  to  be  placed  in 
convenient  and  effective  positions.  Such  a  marshalled  wealth 
of  ancient  candlesticks  and  flambeaux  I  had  never  beheld. 
Niched  against  the  dark  panelling,  casting  great  luminous 
circles  upon  the  pendent  stiffness  of  sombre  tapestries,  en 
hancing  and  completing  with  admirable  effect  the  vastness 
and  mystery  of  the  ancient  house,  they  seemed  to  people  the 
great  rooms,  as  our  little  group  passed  slowly  from  one  to 
another,  with  a  dim,  expectant  presence.  We  had  a  delight 
ful  hour  of  it.  Mr.  Searle  at  once  assumed  the  part  of  cice- 


82     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

rone,  and — I  had  not  hitherto  done  him  justice — Mr.  Searle 
became  agreeble.  While  I  lingered  behind  with  Miss  Searle, 
he  walked  in  advance  with  his  kinsman.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
said,  "Well,  if  you  want  the  old  place,  you  shall  have  it — 
metaphysically!"  To  speak  vulgarly,  he  rubbed  it  in.  Carry 
ing  a  great  silver  candlestick  in  his  left  hand,  he  raised  it 
and  lowered  it  and  cast  the  light  hither  and  thither,  upon 
pictures  and  hangings  and  bits  of  carving  and  a  hundred 
lurking  architectural  treasures.  Mr.  Searle  knew  his  house. 
He  hinted  at  innumerable  traditions  and  memories,  and 
evoked  with  a  very  pretty  wit  the  figures  of  its  earlier  occu 
pants.  He  told  a  dozen  anecdotes  with  an  almost  reverential 
gravity  and  neatness.  His  companion  attended,  with  a  sort 
of  brooding  intelligence.  Miss  Searle  and  I,  meanwhile, 
were  not  wholly  silent. 

"I  suppose  that  by  this  time/'  I  said,  "you  and  your  cousin 
are  almost  old  friends." 

She  trifled  a  moment  with  her  fan,  and  then  raising  her 
homely  candid  gaze:  "Old  friends,  and  at  the  same  time 
strangely  new!  My  cousin, — my  cousin," — and  her  voice 
lingered  on  the  word, — "it  seems  so  strange  to  call  him  my 
cousin,  after  thinking  these  many  years  that  I  had  no  cousin ! 
He's  a  most  singular  man." 

"It's  not  so  much  he  as  his  circumstances  that  are  singu 
lar,"  I  ventured  to  say. 

"I'm  so  sorry  for  his  circumstances.  I  wish  I  could  help 
him  in  some  way.  He  interests  me  so  much."  And  here 
Miss  Searle  gave  a  rich,  mellow  sigh.  "I  wish  I  had  known 
him  a  long  time  ago.  He  told  me  that  he  is  but  the  shadow 
of  what  he  was." 

I  wondered  whether  Searle  had  been  consciously  playing 
upon  the  fancy  of  this  gentle  creature.  If  he  had,  I  believed 
he  had  gained  his  point.  But  in  fact  his  position  had  be 
come  to  my  sense  so  charged  with  opposing  forces,  that  I 
hardly  ventured  wholly  to  rejoice.  "His  better  self  just  now," 
I  said,  "seems  again  to  be  taking  shape.  It  will  have  been  a 
good  deed  on  your  part,  Miss  Searle,  if  you  help  to  restore 
him  to  soundness  and  serenity." 

"Ah,  what  can  I  do?" 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  83 

"Be  a  friend  to  him.  Let  him  like  you,  let  him  love  you ! 
You  see  in  him  now,  doubtless,  much  to  pity  and  to  wonder 
at.  But  let  him  simply  enjoy  awhile  the  grateful  sense  of 
your  nearness  and  dearness.  He  will  be  a  better  and  stronger 
man  for  it,  and  then  you  can  love  him,  you  can  respect  him 
without  restriction." 

Miss  Searle  listened  with  a  puzzled  tenderness  of  gaze. 
"It's  a  hard  part  for  poor  me  to  play!" 

Her  almost  infantine  gentleness  left  me  no  choice  but  to 
be  absolutely  frank.  "Did  you  ever  play  any  part  at  all?" 
I  asked. 

Her  eyes  met  mine,  wonderingly;  she  blushed,  as  with  a 
sudden  sense  of  my  meaning.  "Never!  I  think  I  have 
hardly  lived." 

"You've  begun  now,  perhaps.  You  have  begun  to  care  for 
something  outside  the  narrow  circle  of  habit  and  duty.  (Ex 
cuse  me  if  I  am  rather  too  outspoken:  you  know  I'm  a  for 
eigner.)  It's  a  great  moment:  I  wish  you  joy." 

"I  could  almost  fancy  you  are  laughing  at  me.  I  feel 
more  trouble  than  joy." 

"Why  do  you  feel  trouble?" 

She  paused  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  our  two  companions. 
"My  cousin's  arrival,"  she  said  at  last,  "is  a  great  disturb 
ance." 

"You  mean  that  you  did  wrong  in  recognizing  him?  In 
that  case  the  fault  is  mine.  He  had  no  intention  of  giving 
you  the  opportunity." 

"I  did  wrong,  after  a  fashion!  But  I  can't  find  it  in  my 
heart  to  regret  it.  I  never  shall  regret  it!  I  did  what  I 
thought  proper.  Heaven  forgive  me!" 

"Heaven  bless  you,  Miss  Searle !  Is  any  harm  to  come  of 
it?  I  did  the  evil;  let  me  bear  the  brunt!" 

She  shook  her  head  gravely.  "You  don't  know  my 
brother!" 

"The  sooner  I  do  know  him,  then,  the  better!"  And 
hereupon  I  felt  a  dull  irritation  which  had  been  gathering 
force  for  more  than  an  hour  explode  into  sudden  wrath. 
"What  on  earth  is  your  brother?"  I  demanded.  She 
turned  away.  "Are  you  afraid  of  him?"  I  asked. 


84     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

She  gave  me  a  tearful  sidelong  glace.  "He's  looking  at 
me!"  she  murmured. 

I  look  at  him.  He  was  standing  with  his  back  to  us, 
holding  a  large  Venetian  hand-mirror,  framed  in  rococco 
silver,  which  he  had  taken  from  a  shelf  of  antiquities,  in  just 
such  a  position  that  he  caught  the  reflection  of  his  sister's 
person.  Shall  I  confess  it?  Something  in  this  performance 
so  tickled  my  sense  of  the  picturesque,  that  it  was  with  a  sort 
of  blunted  anger  that  I  muttered,  "The  sneak!"  Yet  I  felt 
passion  enough  to  urge  me  forward.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
by  implication  I,  too,  was  being  covertly  watched.  I  should 
not  be  watched  for  nothing!  "Miss  Searle,"  I  said,  insist 
ing  upon  her  attention,  "promise  me  something." 

She  turned  upon  me  with  a  start  and  the  glance  of  one 
appealing  from  some  great  pain.  "O,  don't  ask  me!"  she 
cried.  It  was  as  if  she  were  standing  on  the  verge  of  some 
sudden  lapse  of  familiar  ground  and  had  been  summoned 
to  make  a  leap.  I  felt  that  retreat  was  impossible,  and 
that  it  was  the  greater  kindness  to  beckon  her  forward. 

"Promise  me,"  I  repeated. 

Still  with  her  eyes  she  protested.  "O,  dreadful  day!"  she 
cried,  at  last. 

"Promise  me  to  let  him  speak  to  you,  if  he  should  ask 
you,  any  wish  you  may  suspect  on  your  brother's  part  not 
withstanding." 

She  colored  deeply.  "You  mean,"  she  said,  "you  mean 
that  he — has  something  particular  to  say." 

"Something  most  particular!" 

"Poor  cousin!" 

I  gave  her  a  deeply  questioning  look.  "Well,  poor  cousin ! 
But  promise  me." 

"I  promise,"  she  said,  and  moved  away  across  the  long 
room  and  out  of  the  door. 

"You're  in  time  to  hear  the  most  delightful  story!"  said 
my  friend,  as  I  rejoined  the  two  gentlemen.  They  were 
standing  before  an  old  sombre  portrait  of  a  lady  in  the  dress 
of  Queen  Anne's  time,  with  her  ill-painted  flesh-tints  show 
ing  livid  in  the  candlelight  against  her  dark  drapery  and 
background.  "This  is  Mistress  Margaret  Searle, — a  sort  of 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  85 

Beatrix  Esmond, — who  did  as  she  pleased.  She  married  a 
paltry  Frenchman,  a  penniless  fiddler,  in  the  teeth  of  her 
whole  family.  Fair  Margaret,  my  compliments!  Upon  my 
soul,  she  looks  like  Miss  Searle!  Pray  go  on.  What  came 
of  it  all?" 

Mr.  Searle  looked  at  his  kinsman  for  a  moment  with  an 
air  of  distaste  for  his  boisterous  homage,  and  of  pity  for  his 
crude  imagination.  Then  resuming,  with  a  very  effective 
dryness  of  tone:  "I  found  a  year  ago,  in  a  box  of  very  old 
papers,  a  letter  from  Mistress  Margaret  to  Cynthia  Searle, 
her  elder  sister.  It  was  dated  from  Paris  and  dreadfully 
ill-spelled.  It  contained  a  most  passionate  appeal  for — a — 
for  pecuniary  assistance.  She  had  just  been  confined,  she 
was  starving,  and  neglected  by  her  husband;  she  cursed  the 
day  she  left  England.  It  was  a  most  dismal  effusion.  I 
never  heard  that  she  found  means  to  return." 

"So  much  for  marrying  a  Frenchman!",  I  said,  senten- 
tiously. 

Mr.  Searle  was  silent  for  some  moments.  "This  was  the 
first,"  he  said,  finally,"  and  the  last  of  the  family  who  has 
been  so  d — d  un-English!" 

"Does  Miss  Searle  know  her  history?"  asked  my  friend, 
staring  at  the  rounded  whiteness  of  the  lady's  heavy  cheek. 

"Miss  Searle  knows  nothing !"  said  our  host,  with  zeal. 

This  utterance  seemed  to  kindle  in  my  friend  a  generous 
opposing  zeal.  "She  shall  know  at  least  the  tale  of  Mistress 
Margaret,"  he  cried,  and  walked  rapidly  away  in  search  of 
her. 

Mr.  Searle  and  I  pursued  our  march  through  the  lighted 
rooms.  "You've  found  a  cousin,"  I  said,  "with  a  ven 
geance." 

"Ah,  a  vengeance?"  said  my  host,  stiffly. 

"I  mean  that  he  takes  as  keen  an  interest  in  your  annals 
and  possessions  as  yourself." 

"O,  exactly  so!"  and  Mr.  Searle  burst  into  resounding 
laughter.  "He  tells  me,"  he  resumed,  in  a  moment,  "that 
he  is  an  invalid.  I  should  never  have  fancied  it." 

"Within  the  past  few  hours,"  I  said,  "he's  a  changed  man. 


86     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

Your  place  and  your  kindness  have  refreshed  him  im 
mensely." 

Mr.  Searle  uttered  the  little  shapeless  ejaculation  with 
which  many  an  Englishman  is  apt  to  announce  the  concus 
sion  of  any  especial  courtesy  of  speech.  He  bent  his  eyes 
on  the  floor  frowningly,  and  then,  to  my  surprise,  he  sud 
denly  stopped  and  looked  at  me  with  a  penetrating  eye. 
"I'm  an  honest  man!"  he  said.  I  was  quite  prepared  to 
assent;  but  he  went  on,  with  a  sort  of  fury  of  frankness,  as 
if  it  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  been  prompted 
to  expound  himself,  as  if  the  process  was  mightily  unpleas 
ant  to  him  and  he  was  hurrying  through  it  as  a  task.  "An 
honest  man,  mind  you !  I  know  nothing  about  Mr.  Clement 
Searle!  I  never  expected  to  see  him.  He  has  been  to  me 
a — a — "  And  here  Mr.  Searle  paused  to  select  a  word 
which  should  vividly  enough  express  what,  for  good  or  for 
ill,  his  kinsman  had  been  to  him.  "He  has  been  to  me  an 
amazement!  I  have  no  doubt  he  is  a  most  amiable  man! 
You'll  not  deny,  however,  that  he's  a  very  odd  style  of  per 
son,  I'm  sorry  he's  ill!  I'm  sorry  he's  poor!  He's  my 
fiftieth  cousin!  Well  and  good!  I'm  an  honest  man.  He 
shall  not  have  it  to  say  that  he  was  not  received  at  my  house." 

"He,  too,  thank  heaven!  is  an  honest  man!"  I  said, 
smiling. 

"Why  the  deuce,  then,"  cried  Mr.  Searle,  turning  almost 
fiercely  upon  me,  "has  he  established  this  underhand  claim 
to  my  property?" 

This  startling  utterance  flashed  backward  a  gleam  of  light 
upon  the  demeanor  of  our  host  and  the  suppressed  agitation 
of  his  sister.  In  an  instant  the  jealous  soul  of  the  unhappy 
gentleman  revealed  itself.  For  a  moment  I  was  so  amazed 
and  scandalized  at  the  directness  of  his  attack  that  I  lacked 
words  to  respond.  As  soon  as  he  had  spoken,  Mr.  Searle 
appeared  to  feel  that  he  had  struck  too  hard  a  blow.  "Ex 
cuse  me,  sir,"  he  hurried  on,  "if  I  speak  of  this  matter  with 
heat.  But  I  have  seldom  suffered  so  grievous  a  shock  as  on 
learning,  as  I  learned  this  morning  from  my  solicitor,  the 
monstrous  proceedings  of  Mr.  Clement  Searle.  Great 
heaven,  sir,  for  what  does  the  man  take  me?  He  pretends 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  87 

to  the  Lord  knows  what  .fantastic  passion  for  my  place.  Let 
him  respect  it,  then.  Let  him,  with  his  tawdry  parade  of 
imagination,  imagine  a  tithe  of  what  I  feel.  I  love  my  es 
tate;  it's  my  passion,  my  life,  myself!  Am  I  to  make  a 
great  hole  in  it  for  a  beggarly  foreigner,  a  man  without 
means,  without  proof,  a  stranger,  an  adventurer,  a  Bohe 
mian?  I  thought  America  boasted  that  she  had  land  for  all 
men!  Upon  my  soul,  sir,  I  have  never  been  so  shocked  in 
my  life." 

I  paused  for  some  moments  before  speaking,  to  allow  his 
passion  fully  to  expend  itself  and  to  nicker  up  again  if  it 
chose;  for  on  my  own  part  it  seemed  well  that  I  should 
answer  him  ence  for  all.  "Your  really  absurd  apprehen 
sions,  Mr.  Searle,"  I  said  at  last,  "your  terrors,  I  may  call 
them,  have  fairly  overmastered  your  common-sense.  You 
are  attacking  a  man  of  straw,  a  creature  of  base  illusion; 
though  I'm  sadly  afraid  you  have  wounded  a  man  of  spirit 
and  of  conscience.  Either  my  friend  has  no  valid  claim  on 
your  estate,  in  which  case  your  agitation  is  superfluous;  or 
he  has  a  valid  claim — " 

Mr.  Searle  seized  my  arm  and  glared  at  me,  as  I  may  say; 
his  pale  face  paler  still  with  the  horror  of  my  suggestion, 
his  great  keen  eyes  flashing,  and  his  flamboyant  hair  erect 
and  quivering. 

"A  valid  claim !"  he  whispered.     "Let  him  try  it!" 

We  had  emerged  into  the  great  hall  of  the  mansion  and 
stood  facing  the  main  doorway.  The  door  stood  open  into 
the  porch,  through  whose  stone  archway  I  saw  the  garden 
glittering  in  the  blue  light  of  a  full  moon.  As  Mr.  Searle 
uttered  the  words  I  have  just  repeated,  I  beheld  my  com 
panion  come  slowly  up  into  the  porch  from  without,  bare 
headed,  bright  in  the  outer  moonlight,  dark  then  in  the 
shadow  of  the  archway,  and  bright  again  in  the  lamplight  on 
the  threshold  of  the  hall.  As  he  crossed  the  threshold  the 
butler  made  his  appearance  at  the  head  of  the  staircase  on 
our  left,  faltered  .visibly  a  moment  on  seeing  Mr.  Searle; 
but  then,  perceiving  my  friend,  he  gravely  descended.  He 
bore  in  his  hand  a  small  plated  salver.  On  the  salver, 
gleaming  in  the  light  of  the  suspended  lamp,  lay  a  folded 


88     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

note.  Clement  Searle  came  forward,  staring  a  little  and 
startled,  I  think,  by  some  fine  sense  of  a  near  explosion.  The 
butler  applied  the  match.  He  advanced  toward  my  friend, 
extending  salver  and  note.  Mr.  Searle  made  a  movement 
as  if  to  spring  forward,  but  controlled  himself.  "Totten 
ham  1"  he  shouted,  in  a  strident  voice. 

"Yes,  sir!"  said  Tottenham,  halting. 

"Stand  where  you  are.     For  whom  is  that  note?" 

"For  Mr.  Clement  Searle,"  said  the  butler,  staring  straight 
before  him  as  if  to  discredit  a  suspicion  of  his  having  read 
the  direction. 

"Who  gave  it  to  you?" 

"Mrs.  Horridge,  sir."     (The  housekeeper.) 

"Who  gave  it  Mrs.  Horridge?" 

There  was  on  Tottenham's  part  just  an  infinitesimal 
pause  before  replying. 

"My  dear  sir,"  broke  in  Searle,  completely  sobered  by  the 
sense  of  violated  courtesy,  "is  n't  that  rather  my  business?" 

"What  happens  in  my  house  is  my  business;  and  mighty 
strange  things  seem  to  be  happening."  Mr.  Searle  had  be 
come  exasperated  to  that  point  that,  a  rare  thing  for  an 
Englishman,  he  compromised  himself  before  a  servant. 

"Bring  me  the  note!"  he  cried.     The  butler  obeyed. 

''Really,  this  is  too  much  I"  cried  my  companion,  affronted 
and  helpless. 

I  was  disgusted.  Before  Mr.  Searle  had  time  to  take  the 
note,  I  possessed  myself  of  it.  "If  you  have  no  regard  for 
your  sister,"  I  said,  "  let  a  stranger,  at  least,  act  for  her." 
And  I  tore  the  disputed  thing  into  a  dozen  pieces. 

"In  the  name  of  decency,"  cried  Searle,  "what  does  this 
horrid  business  mean?" 

Mr.  Searle  was  about  to  break  out  upon  him;  but  at  this 
moment  his  sister  appeared  on  the  staircase,  summoned  evi 
dently  by  our  high-pitched  and  angry  voices.  She  had  ex 
changed  her  dinner-dress  for  a  dark  dressing-gown,  removed 
her  ornaments,  and  begun  to  disarrange  her  hair,  a  heavy 
tress  of  which  escaped  from  the  comb.  She  hurried  down 
ward,  with  a  pale,  questioning  face.  Feeling  distinctly  that, 
for  ourselves,  immediate  departure  was  in  the  air,  and  divin- 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  89 

ing  Mr.  Tottenham  to  be  a  butler  of  remarkable  intuitions 
and  extreme  celerity,  I  seized  the  opportunity  to  request  him, 
sotto  voce,  to  send  a  carriage  to  the  door  without  delay. 
"And  put  up  our  things,"  I  added. 

Our  host  rushed  at  his  sister  and  seized  the  white  wrist 
which  escaped  from  the  loose  sleeve  of  her  dress.  "What 
was  in  that  note?"  he  demanded. 

Miss  Searle  looked  first  at  its  scattered  fragments  and 
then  at  her  cousin.  "Did  you  read  it?"  she  asked. 

"No,  but  I  thank  you  for  it!"  said  Searle. 

Her  eyes  for  an  instant  communed  brightly  with  his  own; 
then  she  transferred  them  to  her  brother's  face,  where  the 
light  went  out  of  them  and  left  a  dull,  sad  patience.  An  in 
exorable  patience  he  seemed  to  find  it:  he  flushed  crimson 
with  rage  and  the  sense  of  his  unhandsomeness,  and  flung 
her  away.  "You're  a  child,"  he  cried.  "Go  to  bed." 

In  poor  Searle's  face  as  well  the  gathered  serenity  was 
twisted  into  a  sickened  frown,  and  the  reflected  brightness  of 
his  happy  day  turned  to  blank  confusion.  "Have  I  been 
dealing  these  three  hours  with  a  madman?"  he  asked  plain 
tively. 

"A  madman,  yes,  if  you  will!  A  man  mad  with  the  love 
of  his  home  and  the  sense  of  its  stability.  I  have  held  my 
tongue  till  now,  but  you  have  been  too  much  for  me.  Who 
are  you,  what  are  you  ?  From  what  paradise  of  fools  do  you 
come,  that  you  fancy  I  shall  cut  off  a  piece  of  my  land,  my 
home,  my  heart,  to  toss  to  you  ?  Forsooth,  I  shall  share  my 
land  with  you  ?  Prove  your  infernal  claim !  There  is  n't 
that  in  it!"  And  he  kicked  one  of  the  bits  of  paper  on  the 
floor. 

Searle  received  this  broadside  gaping.  Then  turning 
away,  he  went  and  seated  himself  on  a  bench  against  the 
wall  and  rubbed  his  forehead  amazedly.  I  looked  at  my 
watch,  and  listened  for  the  wheels  of  our  carriage. 

Mr.  Searle  went  on.  "Was  n't  it  enough  that  you  should 
have  practiced  against  my  property?  Need  you  have  come 
into  my  very  house  to  practice  against  my  sister?" 

Searle  put  his  two  hands  to  his  face.  "Oh,  oh,  oh!"  he 
softly  roared. 


90     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

Miss  Searle  crossed  rapidly  and  dropped  on  her  knees  at 
his  side. 

"Go  to  bed,  you  fool!"  shrieked  her  brother. 

"Dear  cousin,"  said  Miss  Searle,  "it's  cruel  that  you  are 
to  have  to  think  of  us  so!" 

"O,  I  shall  think  of  you!"  he  said.  And  he  laid  a  hand 
on  her  head, 

"I  believe  you  have  done  nothing  wrong!"  she  murmured. 

"I've  done  what  I  could,"  her  brother  pursued.  "But  it's 
arrant  folly  to  pretend  to  friendship  when  this  abomination 
lies  between  us.  You  were  welcome  to  my  meat  and  my 
wine,  but  I  wonder  you  could  swallow  them.  The  sight 
spoiled  my  appetite!"  cried  the  furious  little  man,  with  a 
laugh.  "Proceed  with  your  case!  My  people  in  London 
are  instructed  and  prepared." 

"I  have  a  fancy,"  I  said  to  Searle,  "that  your  case  has 
vastly  improved  since  you  gave  it  up." 

"Oho!  you  don't  feign  ignorance,  then?"  and  he  shook 
his  flaming  chevelure  at  me.  "It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  give 
it  up!"  And  he  laughed  resoundingly.  "Perhaps  you  will 
also  give  up  my  sister!" 

Searle  sat  in  his  chair  in  a  species  of  collapse,  staring  at 
his  adversary.  "O  miserable  man!"  he  moaned  at  last.  "I 
fancied  we  had  become  such  friends!" 

"Boh!  you  imbecile!"  cried  our  host. 

Searle  seemed  not  to  hear  him.  "Am  I  seriously  ex 
pected,"  he  pursued,  slowly  and  painfully,  "am  I  seriously 
expected — to — to  sit  here  and  defend  myself — to  prove  I 
have  done  nothing  wrong?  Think  what  you  please."  And 
he  rose,  with  an  effort,  to  his  feet.  "I  know  what  you 
think!"  he  added,  to  Miss  Searle. 

The  carriage  wheels  resounded  on  the  gravel,  and  at  the 
same  moment  the  footman  descended  with  our  two  portman 
teaus.  Mr.  Tottenham  followed  him  with  our  hats  and  coats. 

"Good  God!"  cried  Mr.  Searle;  "you  are  not  going  away!" 
This  ejaculation,  under  the  circumstances,  had  a  grand  com 
icality  which  prompted  me  to  violent  laughter.  "Bless  my 
soul!"  he  added,  "of  course  you  are  going." 

"It's  perhaps  well,"  said  Miss  Searle,  with  a  great  effort, 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  91 

inexpressibly  touching  in  one  for  whom  great  efforts  were 
visibly  new  and  strange,  "that  I  should  tell  you  what  my 
poor  little  note  contained." 

"That  matter  of  your  note,  madam,"  said  her  brother, 
"you  and  I  will  settle  together!" 

"Let  me  imagine  its  contents,"  said  Searle. 

"Ah!  they  have  been  too  much  imagined!"  she  answered 
simply.  "It  was  only  a  word  of  warning.  I  knew  some 
thing  painful  was  coming." 

Searle  took  his  seat.  "The  pains  and  the  pleasures  of  this 
day,"  he  said  to  his  kinsman,  "I  shall  equally  never  forget. 
Knowing  you,"  and  he  offered  his  hand  to  Miss  Searle,  "has 
been  the  pleasure  of  pleasures.  I  hoped  something  more 
was  to  come  of  it." 

"A  deal  too  much  has  come  of  it!"  cried  our  host,  irre- 
pressibly. 

Searle  looked  at  him  mildly,  almost  benignantly,  from 
head  to  foot ;  and  then  closing  his  eyes  with  an  air  of  sudden 
physical  distress:  "I'm  afraid  so!  I  can't  stand  more  of 
this."  I  gave  him  my  arm,  and  crossed  the  threshold.  As 
we  passed  out  I  heard  Miss  Searle  burst  into  a  torrent  of 
sobs. 

"We  shall  hear  from  each  other  yet,  I  take  it !"  cried  her 
brother,  harassing  our  retreat. 

Searle  stopped  and  turned  round  on  him  sharply,  almost 
fiercely.  "O  ridiculous  man!"  he  cried. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  shall  not  prosecute?"  screamed 
the  other.  "I  shall  force  you  to  prosecute!  I  shall  drag 
you  into  court,  and  you  shall  be  beaten — beaten — beaten!" 
And  this  soft  vocable  continued  to  ring  in  our  ears  as  we 
drove  away. 

We  drove,  of  course,  to  the  little  wayside  inn  whence  we 
had  departed  in  the  morning  so  unencumbered,  in  all  broad 
England,  with  either  enemies  or  friends.  My  companion,  as 
the  carriage  rolled  along,  seemed  utterly  overwhelmed  and 
exhausted.  "What  a  dream!"  he  murmured  stupidly. 
"What  an  awakening!  What  a  long,  long  day!  What  a 
hideous  scene!  Poor  me!  Poor  woman!"  When  we  had 
resumed  possession  of  our  two  little  neighboring  rooms,  I 


92     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

asked  him  if  Miss  Searle's  note  had  been  the  result  of  any 
thing  that  had  passed  between  them  on  his  going  to  rejoin 
her.  "I  found  her  on  the  terrace,  he  said,  "walking  a  rest 
less  walk  in  the  moonlight.  I  was  greatly  excited;  I  hardly 
know  what  I  said.  I  asked  her,  I  think,  if  she  knew  the 
story  of  Margaret  Searle.  She  seemed  frightened  and 
troubled,  and  she  used  just  the  words  her  brother  had  used, 
'I  know  nothing.'  For  the  moment,  somehow,  I  felt  as  a 
man  drunk.  I  stood  before  her  and  told  her,  with  great  em 
phasis,  how  sweet  Margaret  Searle  had  married  a  beggarly 
foreigner,  in  obedience  to  her  heart  and  in  defiance  of  her 
family.  As  I  talked  the  sheeted  moonlight  seemed  to  close 
about  us,  and  we  stood  in  a  dream,  in  a  solitiude,  in  a  ro 
mance.  She  grew  younger,  fairer,  more  gracious.  I  trem 
bled  with  a  divine  loquacity.  Before  I  knew  it  I  had  gone 
far.  I  was  taking  her  hand  and  calling  her  'Margaret!' 
She  had  said  that  it  was  impossible;  that  she  could  do  noth 
ing;  that  she  was  a  fool,  a  child,  a  slave.  Then,  with  a 
sudden  huge  conviction,  I  spoke  of  my  claim  against  the 
estate.  'It  exists,  then/  she  said.  'It  exists,'  I  answered, 
'but  I  have  foregone  it.  Be  generous!  Pay  it  from  your 
heart!'  For  an  instant  her  face  was  radiant.  'If  I  marry 
you,'  she  cried,  'it  will  repair  the  trouble.'  'In.  our  mar 
riage,'  I  affirmed,  'the  trouble  will  melt  away  like  a  rain 
drop  in  the  ocean.'  'Our  marriage!'  she  repeated,  wonder- 
ingly;  and  the  deep,  deep  ring  of  her  voice  seemed  to  shatter 
the  crystal  walls  of  our  illusion.  'I  must  think,  I  must 
think!'  she  said;  and  she  hurried  away  with  her  face  in  her 
hands.  I  walked  up  and  down  the  terrace  for  some  mo 
ments,  and  then  came  in  and  met  you.  This  is  the  only 
witchcraft  I  have  used!" 

The  poor  fellow  was  at  once  so  excited  and  so  exhausted 
by  the  day's  events  that  I  fancied  he  would  get  little  sleep. 
Conscious,  on  my  own  part,  of  a  stubborn  wakefulness,  I 
but  partly  undressed,  set  my  fire  a-blazing,  and  sat  down  to 
do  some  writing.  I  heard  the  great  clock  in  the  little  parlor 
below  strike  twelve,  one,  half-past  one.  Just  as  the  vibra 
tion  of  this  last  stroke  was  dying  on  the  air  the  door  of 
communication  into  Searle's  room  was  flung  open,  and  my 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  93 

companion  stood  on  the  threshold,  pale  as  a  corpse,  in  his 
nightshirt,  standing  like  a  phantom  against  the  darkness 
behind  him.  "Look  at  me!"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "touch 
me,  embrace,  me,  revere  me!  You  see  a  man  who  has  seen 
a  ghost!" 

"Great  heaven,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Write  it  down!"  he  went  on.  "There,  take  your  pen. 
Put  it  into  dreadful  words.  Make  it  of  all  ghost-stories  the 
ghostliest,  the  truest !  How  do  I  look  ?  Am  I  human  ?  Am 
I  pale?  Am  I  red?  Am  I  speaking  English?  A  ghost, 
sir!  Do  you  understand?" 

I  confess,  there  came  upon  me,  by  contact,  a  great  super 
natural  shock.  I  shall  always  feel  that  I,  too,  have  seen  a 
ghost.  My  first  movement — I  can't  smile  at  it  even  now — 
was  to  spring  to  the  door,  close  it  with  a  great  blow,  and 
then  turn  the  key  upon  the  gaping  blackness  from  which 
Searle  had  emerged.  I  seized  his  two  hands;  they  were  wet 
with  perspiration.  I  pushed  my  chair  to  the  fire  and  forced 
him  to  sit  down  in  it.  I  kneeled  down  before  him  and  held 
his  hands  as  firmly  as  possible.  They  trembled  and  quiv 
ered;  his  eyes  were  fixed,  save  that  the  pupil  dilated  and 
contracted  with  extraordinary  force.  I  asked  no  questions, 
but  waited  with  my  heart  in  my  throat.  At  last  he  spoke. 
"I'm  not  frightened,  but  I'm— O  excited!  This  is  life! 
This  is  living!  My  nerves — my  heart — my  brain!  They 
are  throbbing  with  the  wildness  of  a  myriad  lives !  Do  you 
feel  it?  Do  you  tingle?  Are  you  hot!  Are  you  cold? 
Hold  me  tight — tight — tight!  I  shall  tremble  away  into 
waves — waves — waves,  and  know  the  universe  and  approach 
my  Maker!"  He  paused  a  moment  and  then  went  on:  "A 
woman — as  clear  as  that  candle — no,  far  clearer!  In  a 
blue  dress,  with  a  black  mantle  on  her  head,  and  a  little 
black  muff.  Young,  dreadfully  pretty,  pale  and  ill,  with 
the  sadness  of  all  the  women  who  ever  loved  and  suffered 
_  pleading  and  accusing  in  her  dead  dark  eyes.  God  knows  I 
never  did  any  such  thing!  But  she  took  me  for  my  elder, 
for  the  other  Clement.  She  came  to  me  here  as  she  would 
have  come  to  me  there.  She  wrung  her  hands  and  spoke  to 
me.  'Marry  me!'  she  moaned;  'marry  me  and  right  me!' 


94     THE  GREAT  MODERN:  AMERICAN  STORIES 

I  sat  up  in  bed  just  as  I  sit  here,  looked  at  her,  heard  her — 
heard  her  voice  melt  away,  watched  her  figure  fade  away. 
Heaven  and  earth!  Here  I  am!" 

I  made  no  attempt  either  to  explain  my  friend's  vision 
or  to  discredit  it.  It  is  enough  that  I  felt  for  the  hour  the 
irresistible  contagion  of  his  own  agitation.  On  the  whole,  I 
think  my  own  vision  was  the  more  interesting  of  the  two. 
He  beheld  but  the  transcient,  irresponsible  spectre:  I  beheld 
the  human  subject,  hot  from  the  spectral  presence.  Never 
theless,  I  soon  recovered  my  wits  sufficiently  to  feel  the  neces 
sity  of  guarding  my  friend's  health  against  the  evil  results 
of  excitement  and  exposure.  It  was  tacitly  established  that, 
for  the  night,  he  was  not  to  return  to  his  room;  and  I  soon 
made  him  fairly  comfortable  in  his  place  by  the  fire.  Wish 
ing  especially  to  obviate  a  chill,  I  removed  my  bedding  and 
wrapped  him  about  with  multitudinous  blankets  and  coun 
terpanes.  I  had  no  nerves  either  for  writing  or  sleep;  so  I 
put  out  my  lights,  renewed  the  fire,  and  sat  down  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  hearth.  I  found  a  kind  of  solemn  en 
tertainment  in  watching  my  friend.  Silent,  swathed  and 
muffled  to  his  chin,  he  sat  rigid  and  erect  with  the  dignity 
of  his  great  adventure.  For  the  most  part  his  eyes  were 
closed ;  though  from  time  to  time  he  would  open  them  with  a 
vast,  steady  expansion  and  gaze  unblinking  into  the  fire 
light,  as  if  he  again  beheld  without  terror,  the  image  of  that 
blighted  maid.  .  .  .  The  night  passed  wholly  without 
speech.  Towards  its  close  I  slept  for  half  an  hour.  When 
I  awoke  the  awakened  birds  had  begun  to  twitter.  Searie 
sat  unperturbed,  staring  at  me.  We  exchanged  a  long  look; 
I  felt  with  a  pang  that  his  glittering  eyes  had  tasted  their 
last  of  natural  sleep.  ''How  is  it?  are  you  comfortable?" 
I  asked. 

He  gazed  for  some  time  without  replying.  Then  he  spoke 
with  a  strange,  innocent  grandiloquence,  and  with  pauses 
between  his  words,  as  if  an  inner  voice  were  slowly  prompt 
ing  him.  "You  asked  me,  when  you  first  knew  me,  what  I 
was.  'Nothing/  I  said,  'nothing.'  Nothing  I  have  always 
deemed  myself.  But  I  have  wronged  myself.  I'm  a  per 
sonage!  I'm  rare  among  men!  I'm  a  haunted  man!" 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  95 

Sleep  had  passed  out  of  his  eyes:  I  felt  with  a  deeper 
pang  that  perfect  sanity  had  passed  out  of  his  voice.  From 
this  moment  I  prepared  myself  for  the  worst.  There  was  in 
my  friend,  however,  such  an  essential  gentleness  and  con 
servative  patience,  that  to  persons  surrounding  him  the  worst 
was  likely  to  come  without  hurry  or  violence.  He  had  so 
confirmed  a  habit  of  good  manners  that,  at  the  core  of  rea 
son,  the  process  of  disorder  might  have  been  long  at  work 
without  finding  an  issue.  As  morning  began  fully  to  dawn 
upon  us,  I  brought  our  grotesque  vigil  to  an  end.  Searle 
appeared  so  weak  that  I  gave  him  my  hands  to  help  him  to 
rise  from  his  chair;  he  retained  them  for  some  moments  after 
rising  to  his  feet,  from  an  apparent  inability  to  keep  his 
balance.  "Well,"  he  said,  "I've  seen  one  ghost,  but  I  doubt 
of  my  living  to  see  another.  I  shall  soon  be  myself  as  brave 
a  ghost  as  the  best  of  them.  I  shall  haunt  Mr.  Searle !  It 
can  only  mean  one  thing, — my  near,  dear  death." 

On  my  proposing  breakfast,  "This  shall  be  my  breakfast!" 
he  said;  and  he  drew  from  his  travelling-sack  a  phial  of 
morphine.  He  took  a  strong  dose  and  went  to  bed.  At 
noon  I  found  him  on  foot  again,  dressed,  shaved,  and  ap 
parently  refreshed.  "Poor  fellow!"  he  said,  "  you  have  got 
more  than  you  bargained  for — a  ghost-encumbered  com 
rade.  But  it  won't  be  for  long."  It  immediately  became  a 
question,  of  course,  whither  we  should  now  direct  our  steps. 

"As  I  have  so  little  time,"  said  Searle,  "I  should  like  to 
see  the  best,  the  best  alone."  I  answered  that,  either  for 
time  or  eternity,  I  had  imagined  Oxford  to  be  the  best  thing 
in  England;  and  for  Oxford  in  the  course  of  an  hour  we 
accordingly  departed. 

Of  Oxford  I  feel  small  vocation  to  speak  in  detail.  It 
must  long  remain  for  an  American  one  of  the  supreme  grat 
ifications  of  travel.  The  impression  it  produces,  the  emo 
tions  it  stirs,  in  an  American  mind,  are  too  large  and  various 
to  be  compassed  by  words.  It  seems  to  embody  with  un 
dreamed  completeness  a  kind  of  dim  and  sacred  ideal  of  the 
Western  intellect, — a  scholastic  city,  an  appointed  home  of 
contemplation.  No  other  spot  in  Europe,  I  imagine,  extorts 
from  our  barbarous  hearts  so  passionate  an  admiration.  A 


96     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

finer  pen  than  mine  must  enumerate  the  splendid  devices  by 
which  it  performs  this  great  office ;  I  can  bear  testimony  only 
to  the  dominant  tone  of  its  effect.  Passing  through  the 
various  streets  in  which  the  obverse  longitude  of  the  hoary 
college  walls  seems  to  maintain  an  antique  stillness,  you 
feel  this  to  be  the  most  dignified  of  towns.  Over  all,  through 
all,  the  great  corporate  fact  of  the  University  prevails  and 
penetrates,  like  some  steady  bass  in  a  symphony  of  lighter 
chords,  like  the  mediaeval  and  mystical  presence  of  the 
Empire  in  the  linked  dispersion  of  lesser  states.  The  plain 
Gothic  of  the  long  street- fronts  of  the  colleges — blessed 
seraglios  of  culture  and  leisure — irritate  the  fancy  like  the 
blank  harem-walls  of  Eastern  towns.  Within  their  arching 
portals,  however,  you  perceive  more  sacred  and  sunless 
courts,  and  the  dark  verdure  grateful  and  restful  to  bookish 
eyes.  The  gray-green  quadrangles  stand  forever  open  with  a 
noble  and  trustful  hospitality.  The  seat  of  the  humanities 
is  stronger  in  the  admonitory  shadow  of  her  great  name  than 
in  a  marshalled  host  of  wardens  and  beadles.  Directly  after 
our  arrival  my  friend  and  I  strolled  eagerly  forth  in  the 
luminous  early  dusk.  We  reached  the  bridge  which  passes 
beneath  the  walls  of  Magdalen  and  saw  the  eight-spired 
tower,  embossed  with  its  slender  shaftings,  rise  in  temperate 
beauty — the  perfect  prose  of  Gothic — wooing  the  eyes  to 
the  sky,  as  it  was  slowly  drained  of  day.  We  entered  the 
little  monkish  doorway  and  stood  in  that  dim,  fantastic  outer 
court,  made  narrow  by  the  dominant  presence  of  the  great 
tower,  in  which  the  heart  beats  faster,  and  the  swallows 
niche  more  lovingly  in  the  tangled  ivy,  I  fancied,  than  else 
where  in  Oxford.  We  passed  thence  into  the  great  cloister, 
and  studied  the  little  sculptured  monsters  along  the  en 
tablature  of  the  arcade.  I  was  pleased  to  see  that  Searle  be 
came  extremely  interested;  but  I  very  soon  began  to  fear 
that  the  influence  of  the  place  would  prove  too  potent  for 
his  unbalanced  imagination.  I  may  say  that  from  this 
time  forward,  with  my  unhappy  friend,  I  found  it  hard  to 
distinguish  between  the  play  of  fancy  and  the  labor  of 
thought,  and  to  fix  the  balance  between  perception  and  il 
lusion.  He  had  already  taken  a  fancy  to  confound  his 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  97 

identity  with  that  of  the  earlier  Clement  Searle;  he  began 
to  speak  almost  wholly  as  from  the  imagined  consciousness 
of  his  old-time  kinsman. 

"This  was  my  college,  you  know,"  he  said,  "the  noblest 
in  all  Oxford.  How  often  I  have  paced  this  gentle  cloister, 
side  by  side  with  a  friend  of  the  hour!  My  friends  are  all 
dead,  but  many  a  young  fellow  as  we  meet  him,  dark  or 
fair,  tall  or  short,  reminds  me  of  them.  Even  Oxford,  they 
say,  feels  about  its  massive  base  the  murmurs  of  the  tide  of 
time;  there  are  things  eliminated,  things  insinuated!  Mine 
was  ancient  Oxford — the  fine  old  haunt  of  rank  abuses,  of 
precedent  and  privilege.  What  cared  I,  who  was  a  per 
fect  gentleman,  with  my  pockets  full  of  money?  I  had  an 
allowance  of  two  thousand  a  year." 

It  became  evident  to  me,  on  the  following  day,  that  his 
strength  had  begun  to  ebb,  and  that  he  was  unequal  to  the 
labor  of  regular  sight-seeing.  He  read  my  apprehension  in 
my  eyes,  and  took  pains  to  assure  me  that  I  was  right.  "I 
am  going  down-hill.  Thank  heavens  it's  an  easy  slope, 
coated  with  English  turf  and  with  an  English  churchyard 
at  the  foot."  The  almost  hysterical  emotion  produced  by 
our  adventure  at  Lockley  Park  had  given  place  to  a  broad, 
calm  satisfaction,  in  which  the  scene  around  us  was  re 
flected  as  in  the  depths  of  a  lucid  lake.  We  took  an  after 
noon  walk  through  Christ-Church  Meadow,  and  at  the  river- 
bank  procured  a  boat,  which  I  pulled  up  the  stream  to  Iffley 
and  to  the  slanting  woods  of  Nuneham, — the  sweetest,  flat 
test,  reediest  stream-side  landscape  that  the  heart  need  de 
mand.  Here,  of  course,  we  encountered  in  hundreds  the 
mighty  lads  of  England,  clad  in  white  flannel  and  blue,  im 
mense,  fair-haired,  magnificent  in  their  youth,  lounging 
down  the  current  in  their  idle  punts,  in  friendly  couples  or  in 
solitude  possibly  portentous  of  scholastic  honors;  or  pulling 
in  straining  crews  and  hoarsely  exhorted  from  the  near 
bank.  When,  in  conjunction  with  all  this  magnificent  sport, 
you  think  of  the  verdant  quietude  and  the  silvery  sanctities 
of  the  college  gardens,  you  cannot  but  consider  that  the  youth 
of  England  have  their  porridge  well  salted.  As  my  com 
panion  found  himself  less  and  less  able  to  walk,  we  repaired 


98     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

on  three  successive  days  to  these  scholastic  domains,  and 
spent  long  hours  sitting  in  their  greenest  places.  They 
seemed  to  us  the  fairest  things  in  England  and  the  ripest 
and  sweetest  fruits  of  the  English  system.  Locked  in  their 
antique  verdure,  guarded  (as  in  the  case  of  New  College) 
by  gentle  battlements  of  silver-gray,  outshouldering  the 
matted  leafage  of  centenary  vines,  filled  with  perfumes  and 
privacy  and  memories,  with  students  lounging  bookishly  on 
the  turf  (as  if  tenderly  to  spare  it  the  pressure  of  their 
boot-heels),  and  with  the  great  conservative  presence  of  the 
college  front  appealing  gravely  from  the  restless  outer  world, 
they  seem  to  lie  down  on  the  grass  in  forever,  in  the  happy 
faith  that  life  is  all  a  vast  old  English  garden,  and  time  an 
endless  English  afternoon.  This  charmed  seclusion  was 
especially  grateful  to  my  friend,  and  his  sense  of  it  reached 
its  climax,  I  remember,  on  the  last  afternoon  of  our  three, 
as  we  sat  dreaming  in  the  spacious  garden  of  St.  John's. 
The  long  college  fagade  here,  perhaps,  broods  over  the  lawn 
with  a  more  effective  air  of  property  than  elsewhere.  Searle 
fell  into  unceasing  talk  and  exhaled  his  swarming  impres 
sions  with  a  tender  felicity,  compounded  of  the  oddest  mix 
ture  of  wisdom  and  folly.  Every  student  who  passed  us 
was  the  subject  of  an  extemporized  romance,  and  every 
feature  of  the  place  the  theme  of  a  lyric  rhapsody. 

"Isn't  it  all,"  he  demanded,  "a  delightful  lie?  Mightn't 
one  fancy  this  the  very  central  point  of  the  world's  heart, 
where  all  the  echoes  of  the  world's  life  arrive  only  to  falter 
and  die?  Listen!  The  air  is  thick  with  arrested  voices. 
It  is  well  there  should  be  such  places,  shaped  in  the  interest 
of  factitious  needs;  framed  to  minister  to  the  book-begotten 
longing  for  a  medium  in  which  one  may  dream  unwaked, 
and  believe  unconfuted;  to  foster  the  sweet  illusion  that  all 
is  well  in  this  weary  world,  all  perfect  and  rounded,  mellow 
and  complete  in  this  sphere  of  the  pitiful  unachieved  and 
the  dreadful  uncommenced.  The  world's  made!  Work's 
over!  Now  for  leisure!  England's  safe!  Now  for 
Theocritus  and  Horace,  for  lawn  and  sky!  What  a  sense 
it  all  gives  one  of  the  composite  life  of  England,  and  how 
essential  a  factor  of  the  educated,  British  consciousness  one 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  99 

omits  in  not  thinking  of  Oxford !  Thank  heaven  they  had  the 
wit  to  send  me  here  in  the  other  time.  I'm  not  much  with 
it,  perhaps;  but  what  should  I  have  been  without  it?  The 
misty  spires  and  towers  of  Oxford  seen  far  off  on  the  level 
have  been  all  these  years  one  of  the  constant  things  of 
memory.  Seriously,  what  does  Oxford  do  for  these  people? 
Are  they  wiser,  gentler,  richer,  deeper?  At  moments  when 
its  massive  influence  surges  into  my  mind  like  a  tidal  wave, 
I  take  it  as  a  sort  of  affront  to  my  dignity.  My  soul  reverts 
to  the  naked  background  of  our  own  education,  the  dead 
white  wall  before  which  we  played  our  parts.  I  assent  to 
it  all  with  a  sort  of  desperate  calmness;  I  bow  to  it  with  a 
dogged  pride.  We  are  nursed  at  the  opposite  pole.  Naked 
come  we  into  a  naked  world.  There  is  a  certain  grandeur  in 
the  absence  of  a  mise  en  scene,  a  certain  heroic  strain  in 
those  young  imaginations  of  the  West,  which  find  nothing 
made  to  their  hands,  which  have  to  concoct  their  own 
mysteries,  and  raise  high  into  our  morning  air,  with  a  ring 
ing  hammer  and  nails,  the  castles  in  which  they  dwell. 
Noblesse  oblige:  Oxford  obliges.  What  a  horrible  thing  not 
to  respond  to  such  obligations.  If  you  pay  the  pious  debt 
to  the  last  farthing  of  interest,  you  may  go  through  life 
with  her  blessing;  but  if  you  let  it  stand  unhonored,  you 
are  a  worse  barbarian  than  we!  But  for  better  or  worse,  in 
a  myriad  private  hearts,  think  how  she  must  be  loved !  How 
the  youthful  sentiment  of  mankind  seems  visibly  to  brood 
upon  her !  Think  of  the  young  lives  now  taking  color  in  her 
corridors  and  cloisters.  Think  of  the  centuries'  tale  of 
dead  lads — dead  alike  with  the  close  of  the  young  days  to 
which  these  haunts  were  a  present  world  and  the  ending  of 
the  larger  lives  which  a  sterner  mother-scene  has  gathered 
into  her  massive  history!  'What  are  those  two  young  fel 
lows  kicking  their  heels  over  on  the  grass  there?  One  of 
them  has  the  Saturday  Review;  the  other — upon  my  soul — 
the  other  has  Artemus  Ward!  Where  do  they  live,  how  do 
they  live,  to  what  end  do  they  live  ?  Miserable  boys !  How 
can  they  read  Artemus  Ward  under  these  windows  of 
Elizabeth?  What  do  you  think  loveliest  in  all  Oxford? 
The  poetry  of  certain  windows.  Do  you  see  that  one  yonder, 


ioo    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

the  second  of  those  lesser  bays,  with  the  broken  mullion  and 
open  casement?  That  used  to  be  the  window  of  my  fidus 
Achates,  a  hundred  years  ago.  Remind  me  to  tell  you  the 
story  of  that  broken  mullion.  Don't  tell  me  it's  not  a  com 
mon  thing  to  have  one's  fidus  Achates  at  another  college. 
Pray,  was  I  pledged  to  common  things?  He  was  a  charm 
ing  fellow.  By  the  way,  he  was  a  good  deal  like  you.  Of 
course  his  cocked  hat,  his  long  hair  in  a  black  ribbon,  his 
cinnamon  velvet  suit,  and  his  flowered  waistcoat  made  a 
difference!  We  gentlemen  used  to  wear  swords." 

There  was  something  surprising  and  impressive  in  my 
friend's  gushing  magniloquence.  ...  He  was  becoming 
more  and  more  a  disembodied  observer  and  critic;  the  shell 
of  sense,  growing  daily  thinner  and  more  transparent, 
transmitted  the  tremor  of  his  quickened  spirit.  He  re 
vealed  an  unexpected  faculty  for  becoming  acquainted  with 
the  lounging  gownsmen  whom  we  met  in  our  vague  peregri 
nations.  If  I  left  him  for  ten  minutes,  I  was  sure  to  find 
him,  on  my  return,  in  earnest  conversation  with  some  affable 
wandering  scholar.  Several  young  men  with  whom  he  had 
thus  established  relations  invHed  him  to  their  rooms  and 
entertained  him,  as  I  gathered,  with  boisterous  hospitality. 
For  myself,  I  chose  not  to  be  present  on  these  occasions;  I 
shrunk  partly  from  being  held  in  any  degree  responsible  for 
his  vagaries,  and  partly  from  witnessing  that  painful  ag 
gravation  of  them  which  I  feared  might  be  induced  by 
champagne  and  youthful  society.  He  reported  these  ad 
ventures  with  less  eloquence  than  I  had  fancied  he  might 
use;  but,  on  the  whole,  I  suspect  that  a  certain  method  in 
his  madness,  a  certain  firmness  in  his  most  melting  bonhomie, 
had  insured  him  perfect  respect.  Two  things,  however,  be 
came  evident — that  he  drank  more  champagne  than  was 
good  for  him,  and  that  the  boyish  grossness  of  his  enter 
tainers  tended  rather,  on  reflection,  to  disturb  in  his  mind 
the  pure  image  of  Oxford.  At  the  same  time  it  completed 
his  knowledge  of  the  place.  Making  the  acquaintance  of 
several  tutors  and  fellows,  he  dined  in  Hall  in  half  a  dozen 
colleges,  and  alluded  afterwards  to  these  banquets  with  a 
sort  of  religious  unction.  One  evening,  at  the  close  of  one 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  101 

of  these  entertainments,  he  came  back  to  the  hotel  in  a  cab, 
accompanied  by  a  friendly  student  and  a  physician,  looking 
deadly  pale.  He  had  swooned  away  on  leaving  table,  and 
had  remained  so  stubbornly  unconscious  as  to  excite  great 
alarm  among  his  companions.  The  following  twenty-four 
hours,  of  course,  he  spent  in  bed;  but  on  the  third  day  he 
declared  himself  strong  enough  to  go  out.  On  reaching  the 
street  his  strength  again  forsook  him,  and  I  insisted  upon 
his  returning  to  his  room.  He  besought  me  with  tears  in  his 
eyes  not  to  shut  him  up.  "It's  my  last  chance,"  he  said. 
"I  want  to  go  back  for  an  hour  to  that  garden  of  St.  John's. 
Let  me  look  and  feel;  to-morrow  I  die."  It  seemed  to  me 
possible  that  with  a  Bath-chair  the  expedition  might  be 
accomplished.  The  hotel,  it  appeared,  possessed  such  a 
convenience:  it  was  immediately  produced.  It  became  neces 
sary  hereupon  that  we  should  have  a  person  to  propel  the 
chair.  As  there  was  no  one  available  on  the  spot,  I  pre 
pared  to  perform  the  office ;  but  just  as  Searle  had  got  seated 
and  wrapped  (he  had  come  to  suffer  acutely  from  cold), 
an  elderly  man  emerged  from  a  lurking-place  near  the  door, 
and,  with  a  formal  salute,  offered  to  wait  upon  the  gentleman. 
We  assented,  and  he  proceeded  solemnly  to  trundle  the 
chair  before  him.  I  recognized  him  as  an  individual  whom 
I  had  seen  lounging  shyly  about  the  hotel  doors,  at  intervals 
during  our  stay,  with  a  depressed  air  of  wanting  employ 
ment  and  a  hopeless  doubt  of  finding  any.  .  .  .  He  was, 
I  suppose,  some  fifty  years  of  age;  but  his  pale,  haggard, 
unwholesome  visage,  his  plaintive,  drooping  carriage,  and 
the  irremediable  decay  of  his  apparel,  seemed  to  add  to  the 
burden  of  his  days  and  experience.  His  eyes  were  blood 
shot  and  weak-looking,  his  handsome  nose  had  turned  to 
purple,  and  his  sandy  beard,  largely  streaked  with  gray, 
bristled  with  a  month's  desperate  indifference  to  the  razor. 
In  all  this  rusty  forlornness  there  lurked  a  visible  assurance 
of  our  friend's  having  known  better  days.  Obviously,  he 
was  the  victim  of  some  fatal  depreciation  in  the  market 
value  of  pure  gentility.  There  had  been  something  terribly 
pathetic  in  the  way  he  fiercely  merged  the  attempt  to  touch 
the  greasy  rim  of  his  antiquated  hat  into  a  rounded  and 


102    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

sweeping  bow,  as  from  jaunty  equal  to  equal.  Exchanging 
a  few  words  with  him  as  we  went  along,  I  was  struck  with 
the  refinement  of  his  tone. 

"Take  me  by  some  long  roundabout  way,"  said  Searle, 
"so  that  I  may  see  as  many  college  walls  as  possible." 

"You  can  wander  without  losing  youlway?"  I  asked  of 
our  attendant. 

"I  ought  to  be  able  to,  sir,"  he  said,  after  a  moment,  with 
pregnant  gravity.  And  as  we  were  passing  Wadham  Col 
lege,  "That's  my  college,  sir,"  he  added. 

At  these  words,  Searle  commanded  him  to  stop  and  come 
and  stand  in  front  of  him.  "You  say  that  is  your  college?" 
he  demanded. 

"Wadham  might  deny  me,  sir;  but  Heaven  forbid  I  should 
deny  Wadham.  If  you'll  allow  me  to  take  you  into  the  quad, 
I'll  show  you  my  windows,  thirty  years  ago!" 

Searle  sat  staring,  with  his  huge,  pale  eyes,  which  now 
had  come  to  usurp  the  greatest  place  in  his  wasted  visage, 
filled  with  wonder  and  pity.  "If  you'll  be  so  kind,"  he  said, 
with  immense  politeness.  But  just  as  this  degenerate  son 
of  Wadham  was  about  to  propel  him  across  the  threshold  of 
the  court,  he  turned  about,  disengaged  his  hands,  with  his 
own  hand,  from  the  back  of  the  chair,  drew  him  alongside  of 
him  and  turned  to  me.  "While  we  are  here,  my  dear  fel 
low,"  he  said,  "be  so  good  as  to  perform  this  service.  You 
understand?"  I  smiled  sufferance  at  our  companion,  and 
we  resumed  our  way.  The  latter  showed  us  his  window  of 
thirty  years  ago,  where  now  a  rosy  youth  in  a  scarlet  smok- 
ing-fez  was  puffing  a  cigarette  in  the  open  lattice.  Thence 
we  proceeded  into  the  little  garden,  the  smallest,  I  believe, 
and  certainly  the  sweetest  of  all  the  bosky  resorts  in  Oxford. 
I  pushed  the  chair  along  to  a  bench  on  the  lawn,  wheeled 
it  about  toward  the  fagade  of  the  college,  and  sat  down  on 
the  grass.  Our  attendant  shifted  himself  mournfully  from 
one  foot  to  the  other.  Searle  eyed  him  open-mouthed.  At 
length  he  broke  out:  "God  bless  my  soul,  sir,  you  don't 
suppose  that  I  expect  you  to  stand!  There's  an  empty 
bench." 

"Thank  you,"  said  our  friend,  bending  his  joints  to  sit. 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  103 

"You  English,"  said  Searle,  "are  really  fabulous!  I 
don't  know  whether  I  most  admire  you  or  despise  you !  Now 
tell  me:  Who  are  you?  What  are  you?  What  brought  you 
to  this?" 

The  poor  fellow  blushed  up  to  his  eyes,  took  off  his  hat, 
and  wiped  his  forehead  with  a  ragged  handkerchief.  "My 
name  is  Rawson,  sir.  Beyond  that,  it's  a  long  story." 

"I  ask  out  of  sympathy,"  said  Searle.  "I  have  a 
fellow-feeling!  You're  a  poor  devil;  I'm  a  poor  devil  too." 

"I'm  the  poorest  devil  of  the  two,"  said  the  stranger,  with 
a  little  emphatic  nod  of  the  head. 

"Possibly.  I  suppose  an  English  poor  devil  is  the  poorest 
of  all  poor  devils.  And  then,  you  have  fallen  from  a  height. 
From  Wadham  College  as  a  gentleman  commoner  (is  that 
what  they  called  you?)  to  Wadham  College  as  a  Bath-chair 
man!  Good  heavens,  man,  the  fall's  enough  to  kill  you!" 

"I  didn't  take  it  all  at  once,  sir.  I  dropped  a  bit  one  time 
and  a  bit  another." 

"That's  me,  that's  me!"  cried  Searle,  clapping  his  hands. 

"And  now,"  said  our  friend,  "I  believe  I  can't  drop 
further." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  and  Searle  clasped  his  hand  and  shook 
it,  "there's  a  perfect  similarity  in  our  lot." 

Fearing  that  the  conversation  had  taken  a  turn  which 
might  seem  to  cast  a  rather  fantastic  light  upon  Mr.  Raw- 
son's  troubles,  I  took  the  liberty  of  asking  him  with  great 
gravity  how  he  made  a  living. 

"I  don't  make  a  living,"  he  answered,  with  tearful  eyes, 
"I  can't  make  a  living.  I  have  a  wife  and  three  children, 
starving,  sir.  You  wouldn't  believe  what  I  have  come  to. 
I  sent  my  wife  to  her  mother's,  who  can  ill  afford  to  keep 
her,  and  came  to  Oxford  a  week  ago,  thinking  I  might  pick 
up  a  few  half-crowns  by  showing  people  about  the  colleges. 
But  it's  no  use.  I  haven't  the  assurance.  I  don't  look 
decent.  They  want  a  nice  little  old  man  with  black  gloves, 
and  a  clean  shirt,  and  a  silver-headed  stick.  What  do  I 
look  as  if  I  knew  about  Oxford,  sir?" 


104    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"Dear  me,"  cried  Searle,  "why  didn't  you  speak  to  us 
before?" 

"I  wanted  to;  half  a  dozen  times  I  have  been  on  the  point 
of  it.  I  knew  you  were  Americans." 

"And  Americans  are  rich!"  cried  Searle,  laughing.  "My 
dear  Mr.  Rawson,  American  as  I  am,  I'm  living  on  charity." 

"And  I'm  not,  sir!  There  it  is.  I'm  dying  for  the  want 
of  charity.  You  say  you're  a  pauper;  it  takes  an  American 
pauper  to  go  bowling  about  in  a  Bath-chair.  America's 
an  easy  country." 

"Ah  me!"  groaned  Searle.  "Have  I  come  to  Wadham 
gardens  to  hear  the  praise  of  America?" 

"Wadham  gardens  are  very  well!"  said  Mr.  Rawson; 
"but  one  may  sit  here  hungry  and  shabby,  so  long  as  one 
isn't  too  shabby,  as  well  as  elsewhere.  .  .  .  Shabby  as  I 
sit  here,  I  have  a  brother  with  his  five  thousand  a  year. 
Being  a  couple  of  years  my  senior,  he  gorges  while  I  starve. 
There's  England  for  you !  A  very  pretty  place  for  him!" 

"Poor  England!"  said  Searle,  softly. 

"Has  your  brother  never  helped  you?"  I  asked. 

"A  twenty-pound  note  now  and  then!  I  don't  say  that 
there  have  not  been  times  when  I  have  sorely  tried  his 
generosity.  I  have  not  been  what  I  should.  I  married 
dreadfully  amiss.  But  the  devil  of  it  is  that  he  started 
fair  and  I  started  foul;  with  the  tastes,  the  desires,  the 
needs,  the  sensibilities  of  a  gentleman — and  nothing  else! 
I  can't  afford  to  live  in  England." 

"This  poor  gentleman,"  said  I,  "fancied  a  couple  of 
months  ago  that  he  couldn't  afford  to  live  in  America." 

"I'd  change  chances  with  him!"  And  Mr.  Rawson  gave 
a  passionate  slap  to  his  knee. 

Searle  reclined  in  his  chair  with  his  eyes  closed  and  his 
face  twitching  with  violent  emotion.  Suddenly  he  opened 
his  eyes  with  a  look  of  awful  gravity.  "My  friend,"  he 
said,  "you're  a  failure!  Be  judged!  Don't  talk  about 
chances.  Don't  talk  about  fair  starts  and  foul  starts.  I'm 
at  that  point  myself  that  I  have  a  right  to  speak.  It  lies 
neither  in  one's  chance  nor  one's  start  to  make  one  a  success ; 
nor  in  anything  one's  brother  can  do  or  can  undo.  It  lies 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  105 

in  one's  will!  You  and  I,  sir,  have  had  none;  that's  very 
plain  1  We  have  been  weak,  sir;  as  weak  as  water.  Here 
we  are,  sitting  staring  in  each  other's  faces  and  reading  our 
weakness  in  each  other's  eyes.  We  are  of  no  account!" 

Mr.  Rawson  received  this  address  with  a  countenance  in 
which  heartfelt  conviction  was  oddly  mingled  with  a  vague 
suspicion  that  a  proper  self-respect  required  him  to  resent  its 
unflattering  candor.  In  the  course  of  a  minute  a  proper 
self-respect  yielded  to  the  warm,  comfortable  sense  of  his 
being  understood,  even  to  his  light  dishonor.  "Go  on,  sir, 
go  on,"  he  said.  "It's  wholesome  truth."  And  he  wiped  his 
eyes  with  his  dingy  handkerchief. 

"Dear  me!"  cried  Searle.  "I've  made  you  cry.  Well! 
we  speak  as  from  man  to  man.  I  should  be  glad  to  think  that 
you  had  felt  for  a  moment  the  side-light  of  that  great  un- 
darkening  of  the  spirit  which  precedes — which  precedes  the 
grand  illumination  of  death." 

Mr.  Rawson  sat  silent  for  a  moment,  with  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  ground  and  his  well-cut  nose  more  deeply  tinged  by 
the  force  of  emotion.  Then  at  last,  looking  up:  "You're  a 
very  good-natured  man,  sir;  and  you'll  not  persuade  me  that 
you  don't  come  of  a  good-natured  race.  Say  what  you 
please  about  a  chance;  when  a  man's  fifty — degraded,  penni 
less,  a  husband  and  father — a  chance  to  get  on  his  legs 
again  is  not  to  be  despised.  Something  tells  me  that  my 
chance  is  in  your  country — that  great  home  of  chances.  I 
can  starve  here,  of  course ;  but  I  don't  want  to  starve.  Hang 
it,  sir,  I  want  to  live.  I  see  thirty  years  of  life  before  me 
yet.  If  only,  by  God's  help,  I  could  spend  them  there!  It's 
a  fixed  idea  of  mine.  I've  had  it  for  the  last  ten  years.  It's 
not  that  I'm  a  radical.  I've  no  ideas!  Old  England's  good 
enough  for  me,  but  I'm  not  good  enough  for  old  England. 
I'm  a  shabby  man  that  wants  to  get  out  of  a  room  full  of 
staring  gentlefolks.  I'm  forever  put  to  the  blush.  It's  a 
perfect  agony  of  spirit.  Everything  reminds  me  of  my 
younger  and  better  self.  O,  for  a  cooling,  cleansing  plunge 
into  the  unknowing  and  the  unknown !  I  lie  awake  thinking 
of  it." 

Searle  closed  his  eyes  and  shivered  with  a  long-drawn 


106    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

tremor  which  I  hardly  knew  whether  to  take  for  an  expres 
sion  of  physical  or  of  mental  pain.  In  a  moment  I  per 
ceived  it  was  neither.  "O  my  country,  my  country,  my 
country!"  he  murmured  in  a  broken  voice;  and  then  sat  for 
some  time  abstracted  and  depressed.  I  intimated  to  our 
companion  that  it  was  time  we  should  bring  our  seance  to  a 
close,  and  he,  without  hesitating,  possessed  himself  of  the 
little  handrail  of  the  Bath-chair  and  pushed  it  before  him. 
We  had  got  half-way  home  before  Searle  spoke  or  moved. 
Suddenly  in  the  High  Street,  as  we  were  passing  in  front  of 
a  chop-house,  from  whose  open  doors  there  proceeded  a 
potent  suggestion  of  juicy  joints  and  suet  puddings,  he 
motioned  to  us  to  halt.  "This  is  my  last  five  pounds,"  he 
said  drawing  a  note  from  his  pocket-book.  ''Do  me  the 
favor,  Mr.  Rawson,  to  accept  it.  Go  in  there  and  order  a 
colossal  dinner.  Order  a  bottle  of  Burgundy  and  drink  it  to 
my  immortal  health!"  Mr.  Rawson  stiffened  himself  up  and 
received  the  gift  with  momentarily  irresponsive  fingers.  But 
Mr.  Rawson  had  the  nerves  of  a  gentleman.  I  saw  the  titil- 
lation  of  his  pointed  finger-tips  as  they  closed  upon  the  crisp 
paper;  I  noted  the  fine  tremor  in  his  empurpled  nostril  as  it 
became  more  deeply  conscious  of  the  succulent  flavor  of  the 
spot.  He  crushed  the  crackling  note  in  his  palm  with  a  con 
vulsive  pressure. 

"It  shall  be  Chambertin!"  he  said,  jerking  a  spasmodic 
bow.  The  next  moment  the  door  swung  behind  him. 

Searle  relapsed  into  his  feeble  stupor,  and  on  reaching 
the  hotel  I  helped  him  to  get  to  bed.  For  the  rest  of  the 
day  he  lay  in  a  half-somnolent  state,  without  motion  or 
speech.  The  doctor,  whom  I  had  constantly  in  attendance, 
declared  that  his  end  was  near.  He  expressed  great  sur 
prise  that  he  should  have  lasted  so  long;  he  must  have  been 
living  for  a  month  on  a  cruelly  extorted  strength.  Toward 
evening,  as  I  sat  by  his  bedside  in  the  deepening  dusk,  he 
aroused  himself  with  a  purpose  which  I  had  vaguely  felt 
gathering  beneath  his  quietude.  "My  cousin,  my  cousin," 
he  said,  confusedly.  "Is  she  here?"  It  was  the  first  time 
he  had  spoken  of  Miss  Searle  since  our  exit  from  her 
brother's  house.  "I  was  to  have  married  her,"  he  went  on. 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  107 

"What  a  dream!  That  day  was  like  a  stringe  of  verses — 
rhymed  hours.  But  the  last  verse  is  bad  measure.  What's 
the  rhyme  to  'love'?  Above!  Was  she  a  simple  person,  a 
sweet  person?  Or  have  I  dreamed  it?  She  had  the  heal 
ing  gift;  her  touch  would  have  cured  my  madness.  I  want 
you  to  do  something.  Write  three  lines,  three  words:  'Good 
by;  remember  me;  be  happy.' '•  And  then,  after  a  long 
pause:  "It's  strange  a  man  in  my  condition  should  have  a 
wish.  Need  a  man  eat  his  breakfast  before  his  hanging? 
What  a  creature  is  man!  what  a  farce  is  life!  Here  I  lie, 
worn  down  to  a  mere  throbbing  fever-point;  I  breath  and 
nothing  more,  and  yet  I  desire!  My  desire  lives.  If  I  could 
see  her!  Help  me  out  with  it  and  let  me  die." 

Half  an  hour  later,  at  a  venture,  I  despatched  at  note  to 
Miss  Searle:  "Your  cousin  is  rapidly  dying.  He  asks  to 
see  you."  I  was  conscious  of  a  certain  unkindness  in  doing 
so.  It  would  bring  a  great  trouble,  and  no  power  to  face 
the  trouble.  But  out  of  her  distress  I  fondly  hoped  a  suffi 
cient  energy  might  be  born.  On  the  following  day  my 
friend's  exhaustion  had  become  so  total  that  I  began  to  fear 
that  his  intelligence  was  altogether  gone.  But  towards  even 
ing  he  rallied  awhile,  and  talked  in  a  maundering  way 
about  many  things,  confounding  in  a  ghastly  jumble  the 
memories  of  the  past  weeks  and  those  of  bygone  years.  "By 
the  way,"  he  said  suddenly,  "I  have  made  no  will.  I  haven't 
much  to  bequeath.  Yet  I've  something."  He  had  been 
playing  listlessly  with  a  large  signet-ring  on  his  left  hand, 
which  he  now  tried  to  draw  off.  "I  leave  you  this,"  work 
ing  it  round  and  round  vainly,  "if  you  can  get  it  off.  What 
mighty  knuckles!  There  must  be  such  knuckles  in  the 
mummies  of  the  Pharaohs.  Well,  when  I'm  gone!  Nay,  I 
leave  you  something  more  precious  than  gold-^the  sense  of 
a  great  kindness.  But  I  have  a  little  gold  left.  Bring  me 
those  trinkets."  I  placed  on  the  bed  before  him  several 
articles  of  jewelry,  relics  of  early  elegance:  his  watch  and 
chain,  of  great  value,  a  locket  and  seal,  some  shirt-buttons 
and  scarf-pins.  He  trifled  with  them  feebly  for  some  mo 
ments,  murmuring  various  names  and  dates  associated  with 


108   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

them.  At  last,  looking  up  with  a  sudden  energy,  "What's 
become  of  Mr.  Rawson?" 

"You  want  to  see  him?" 

"How  much  are  these  things  worth?"  he  asked,  without 
heeding  me.  "How  much  would  they  bring?"  And  he  held 
them  up  in  his  weak  hands.  "They  have  a  great  weight. 
Two  hundred  pounds?  I  am  richer  than  I  thought!  Raw- 
son — Rawson — you  want  to  get  out  of  this  awful  England." 

I  stepped  to  the  dbor  and  requested  the  servant,  whom  I 
kept  in  constant  attendance  in  the  adjoining  sitting-room,  to 
send  and  ascertain  if  Mr.  Rawson  was  on  the  premises.  He 
returned  in  a  few  moments,  introducing  our  shabby  friend. 
Mr.  Rawson  was  pale,  even  to  his  nose,  and,  with  his  sup 
pressed  agitation,  had  an  air  of  great  distinction.  I  led  him 
up  to  the  bed.  In  Searle's  eyes,  as  they  fell  on  him,  there 
shone  for  a  moment  the  light  of  a  high  fraternal  greeting. 

"Gread  God!"  said  Mr.  Rawson  fervently. 

"My  friend,"  said  Searle,  "there  is  to  be  one  American 
the  less.  Let  there  be  one  the  more.  At  the  worst,  you'll  be 
as  good  a  one  as  I.  Foolish  me!  Take  these  trinkets;  let 
them  help  you  on  your  way.  They  are  gifts  and  memories, 
but  this  is  a  better  use.  Heaven  speed  you!  May  America 
be  kind  to  you.  Be  .kind,  at  the  last,  to  your  own 
country!" 

From  the  collapse  into  which  this  beneficent  interview 
had  plunged  him,  Searle  gave  few  signs  of  being  likely  to 
emerge.  He  breathed,  as  he  had  said,  and  nothing  more. 
The  twilight  deepened:  I  lit  the  night-lamp.  The  doctor 
sat  silent  and  official  at  the  foot  of  the  bed;  I  resumed  my 
constant  place  near  the  head.  Suddenly  Searle  opened  his 
eyes  widely.  "She'll  not  come,"  he  murmured.  "Amen! 
she's  an  English  sister."  Five  minutes  passed.  He  started 
forward.  "She  has  come,  she  is  here!"  he  whispered.  His 
words  conveyed  to  my  mind  so  absolute  an  assurance,  that 
I  lightly  rose  and  passed  into  the  sitting-room.  At  the  same 
moment,  through  the  opposite  door,  the  servant  introduced 
a  lady.  A  lady,  I  say;  for  an  instant  she  was  simply  such — 
tall,  pale,  dressed  in  deep  mourning.  The  next  moment  I 


A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  109 

had  uttered  her  name— "Miss  Searle!"  She  looked  ten 
years  older. 

She  met  me,  with  both  hands  extended,  and  an  immense 
question  in  her  face.  "He  has  just  spoken  your  name,"  I 
said.  And  then,  with  a  fuller  consciousness  of  the  change  in 
her  dress  and  countenance:  "What  has  happened?" 

"O  death,  death!"  said  Miss  Searle.  "You  and  I  are 
left." 

There  came  to  me  with  her  words  a  sort  of  sickening  shock, 
the  sense  of  poetic  justice  having  been  grimly  shuffled  away. 
"Your  brother?"  I  demanded. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm,  and  I  felt  its  pressure 
deepen  as  she  spoke.  "He  was  thrown  from  his  horse  in  the 
park.  He  died  on  the  spot.  Six  days  have  passed,  six 
months." 

She  took  my  arm.  A  moment  later  we  had  entered  the 
room  and  approached  the  bedside.  The  doctor  withdrew. 
Searle  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her  from  head  to  foot. 
Suddenly  he  seemed  to  perceive  her  mourning.  "Already  1" 
he  cried  audibly;  with  a  smile,  as  I  believe,  of  pleasure. 

She  dropped  on  her  knees  and  took  his  hand.  "Not  for 
you,  cousin,"  she  whispered.  "For  my  poor  brother." 

He  started  in  all  his  deathly  longitude  as  with  a  galvanic 
shock.  "Dead!  he  dead!  Life  itself!"  And  then,  after  a 
moment,  with  a  slight  rising  inflection:  "You  are  free?" 

"Free,  cousin.  Sadly  free.  And  now — now — with  what 
use  for  freedom?" 

He  looked  steadily  a  moment  into  her  eyes,  dark  in  the 
heavy  shadow  of  her  musty  mourning  veil.  "For  me,"  he 
said,  "wear  colors!" 

In  a*  moment  more  death  had  come,  the  doctor  had  silently 
attested  it,  and  Miss  Searle  had  burst  into  sobs. 

We  buried  him  in  the  little  churchyard  in  which  he  had 
expressed  the  wish  to  lie;  beneath  one  of  the  mightiest  of 
English  yews  and  the  little  tower  than  which  none  in  all 
England  has  a  softer  and  hoarier  gray.  A  year  has  passed. 
Miss  Searle,  I  believe,  has  begun  to  wear  colors. 


MLLE.  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI  * 

BY  T.  B.  ALDRICH 


T  T"  TE  are  accustomed  to  speak  with  a  certain  light  irony 
yy  of  the  tendency  which  women  have  to  gossip,  as  if 
the  sin  itself,  if  it  is  a  sin,  were  of  the  gentler  sex, 
and  could  by  no  chance  be  a  masculine  peccadillo.  So  far 
as  my  observation  goes,  men  are  as  much  given  to  small  talk 
as  women,  and  it  is  undeniable  that  we  have  produced  the 
highest  type  of  gossiper  extant.  Where  will  you  find,  in  or 
out  of  literature,  such  another  droll,  delightful,  chatty  busy 
body  as  Samuel  Pepys,  Esq.,  Secretary  to  the  Admiralty  in 
the  reigns  of  those  fortunate  gentlemen,  Charles  II  and 
James  II  of  England?  He  is  the  king  of  tattlers,  as  Shakes 
peare  is  the  king  of  poets. 

If  it  came  to  a  matter  of  pure  gossip,  I  would  back  Our 
Club  against  the  Sorosis  or  any  women's  club  in  existence. 
Whenever  you  see  in  our  drawing-room  four  or  five  young 
fellows  lounging  in  easy-chairs,  cigar  in  hand,  and  now 
and  then  bringing  their  heads  together  over  the  small  round 
Japanese  table  which  is  always  the  pivot  of  these  social 
circles,  you  may  be  sure  they  are  discussing  Tom's  engage 
ment,  or  Dick's  extravagance,  or  Harry's  hopeless  passion 
for  the  younger  Miss  Fleurdelys.  It  is  here  that  old  Tipple- 
ton  gets  execrated  for  that  everlasting  bon  mot  of  his  which 
was  quite  a  success  at  dinner-parties  forty  years  ago;  it  is 
here  the  belle  of  the  season  passes  under  the  scalpels  of 
merciless  young  surgeons;  it  is  here  B's  financial  condition 
is  handled  in  a  way  that  would  make  B's  hair  stand  on  end; 
it  is  here,  in  short,  that  everything  is  canvassed — everything 


*  By  permission  of,  and  by  special  arrangement  with,  Houghton 
Mifflin  Company,  the  authorized  publishers;  and  by  permission  of 
Mrs.  T.  B.  Aldrich. 

1 10 


MLLE.  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI  in 

that  happens  in  our  set,  I  mean — much  that  never  happens, 
and  a  great  deal  that  could  not  possibly  happen.  It  was 
at  Our  Club  that  I  learned  the  particulars  of  the  Van  Twiller 
affair. 

It  was  great  entertainment  to  Our  Club,  the  Van  Twiller 
affair,  though  it  was  rather  a  joyless  thing,  I  fancy,  for  Van 
Twiller.  To  understand  the  case  fully  it  should  be  under 
stood  that  Ralph  Van  Twiller  is  one  of  the  proudest  and  most 
sensitive  men  living.  He  is  a  lineal  descendant  of  Wouter 
Van  Twiller,  the  famous  old  Dutch  governor  of  New  York, 
— Nieuw  Amsterdam,  as  it  was  then;  his  ancestors  have 
always  been  burgomasters  or  admirals  or  generals,  and  his 
mother  is  the  Mrs.  Vanrensselaer  Vanzandt  Van  Twiller 
whose  magnificent  place  will  be  pointed  out  to  you  on  the 
right  bank  of  the  Hudson,  as  you  pass  up  the  historic  river 
towards  Idlewild.  Ralph  is  about  twenty-five  years  old. 
Birth  made  him  a  gentleman,  and  the  rise  of  real  estate — 
some  of  it  in  the  family  since  the  old  governor's  time — made 
him  a  millionaire.  It  was  a  kindly  fairy  that  stepped  in 
and  made  him  a  good  fellow  also.  Fortune,  I  take  it,  was 
in  her  most  jocund  mood  when  she  heaped  her  gifts  in  this 
fashion  on  Van  Twiller,  who  was,  and  will  be  again,  when 
this  cloud  blows  over,  the  flower  of  Our  Club. 

About  a  year  ago  there  came  a  whisper — if  the  word 
"whisper"  is  not  too  harsh  a  term  to  apply  to  what  seemed 
a  mere  breath  floating  gently  through  the  atmosphere  of  the 
billiard-room — imparting  the  intelligence  that  Van  Twiller 
was  in  some  kind  of  trouble.  Just  as  everybody  suddenly 
takes  to  wearing  square-toed  boots,  or  to  drawing  his  neck- 
scarf  through  a  ring,  so  it  became  all  at  once  the  fashion, 
without  any  preconcerted  agreement,  for  everybody  to  speak 
of  Van  Twiller  as  a  man  in  some  way  under  a  cloud.  But 
what  the  cloud  was,  and  how  he  got  under  it,  and  why  he 
did  not  get  away  from  it,  were  points  that  lifted  themselves 
into  the  realm  of  pure  conjecture.  There  was  no  man  in 
the  club  with  strong  enough  wing  to  his  imagination  to  soar 
to  the  supposition  that  Van  Twiller  was  embarrassed  in 
money  matters.  Was  he  in  love?  That  appeared  nearly  as 
improbable;  for  if  he  had  been  in  love  all  the  world — that 


112    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

is,  perhaps  a  hundred  first  families — would  have  known  all 
about  it  instantly. 

"He  has  .the  symptoms,"  said  Delaney,  laughing.  "I 
remember  once  when  Jack  Flemming — " 

"Ned!"  cried  Flemming,  "I  protest  against  any  allusion 
to  that  business." 

This  was  one  night  when  Van  Twiller  had  wandered  into 
the  club,  turned  over  the  magazines  absently  in  the  reading- 
room,  and  wandered  out  again  without  speaking  ten  words. 
The  most  careless  eye  would  have  remarked  the  great  change 
that  had  come  over  Van  Twiller.  Now  and  then  he  would 
play  a  game  of  billiards  with  Bret  Harte  or  John  Hay,  or 
stop  to  chat  a  moment  in  the  vestibule  with  Whitelaw  Reid; 
but  he  was  an  altered  man.  When  at  the  club  he  was 
usually  to  be  found  in  the  small  smoking-room  up-stairs, 
seated  on  a  fauteuil  fast  asleep,  with  the  last  number  of  The 
Nation  in  his  hand.  Once  if  you  went  to  two  or  three  places 
of  an  evening,  you  were  certain  to  meet  Van  Twiller  at  them 
all.  You  seldom  met  him  in  society  now. 

By  and  by  came  whisper  number  two,  a  whisper  more 
emphatic  than  number  one,  but  still  untraceable  to  any 
tangible  mouth-piece.  This  time  the  whisper  said  Van 
Twiller  was  in  love.  But  with  whom?  The  list  of  possible 
Mrs.  Van  Twillers  was  carefully  examined  by  experienced 
hands,  and  a  check  placed  against  a  fine  old  Knickerbocker 
name  here  and  there,  but  nothing  satisfactory  arrived  at. 
Then  that  same  still  small  voice  of  rumor,  but  now  with  an 
easily  detected  staccato  sharpness  to  it,  said  that  Van  Twiller 
was  in  love — with  an  actress!  Van  Twiller,  whom  it  had 
taken  all  these  years  and  all  this  waste  of  raw  material  in 
the  way  of  ancestors  to  bring  to  perfection, — Ralph  Van 
Twiller,  the  net  result  and  flower  of  his  race,  the  descendant 
of  Wouter,  the  son  of  Mrs.  Vanrensselaer  Vanzandt  Van 
Twiller — in  love  with  an  actress!  That  was  too  ridiculous 
to  be  believed — and  so  everybody  believed  it. 

Six  or  seven  members  of  the  club  abruptly  discovered  in 
themselves  an  unsuspected  latent  passion  for  the  histrionic 
art.  In  squads  of  two  or  three  they  stormed  successively 
all  the  theatres  in  town — Booth's,  Wallack's,  Daly's  Fifth 


MLLE.  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI  113 

Avenue  (not  burnt  down  then),  and  the  Grand  Opera  House. 
Even  the  shabby  home  of  the  drama  over  in  the  Bowery, 
where  the  Germanic  Thespis  has  not  taken  out  his  naturali 
zation  papers,  underwent  rigid  exploration.  But  no  clew 
was  found  to  Van  Twiller's  mysterious  attachment.  The 
opera  bouffe,  which  promised  the  widest  field  for  investiga 
tion,  produced  absolutely  nothing,  not  even  a  crop  of  sus 
picions.  One  night,  after  several  weeks  of  this,  Delaney  and 
I  fancied  we  caught  a  glimpse  of  Van  Twiller  in  the  private 
box  of  an  up-town  theatre,  where  some  thrilling  trapeze 
performance  was  going  on  which  we  did  not  care  to  sit 
through;  but  we  concluded  afterwards  it  was  only  some 
body  that  looked  like  him.  Delaney,  by  the  way,  was 
unusually  active  in  this  search.  I  dare  say  he  never  quite 
forgave  Van  Twiller  for  calling  him  Muslin  Delaney.  Ned 
is  fond  of  ladies*  society  and  that's  a  fact. 

The  Cimmerian  darkness  which  surrounded  Van  Twiller's 
inamorata  left  us  free  to  indulge  in  the  wildest  conjectures. 
Whether  she  was  black-tressed  Melpomene,  with  bowl  and 
dagger,  or  Thalia,  with  the  fair  hair  and  the  laughing  face, 
was  only  to  be  guessed  at.  It  was  popularly  conceded,  how 
ever,  that  Van  Twiller  was  on  the  point  of  forming  a  dread 
ful  mesalliance. 

Up  to  this  period  he  had  visited  the  club  regularly.  Sud 
denly  he  ceased  to  appear.  He  was  not  seen  on  Broadway, 
or  in  the  Central  Park,  or  at  the  houses  he  generally  fre 
quented.  His  chambers — and  mighty  comfortable  ones  they 
were — on  Thirty-fourth  Street  were  deserted.  He  had 
dropped  out  of  the  world,  shot  like  a  bright  particular  star 
from  his  orbit  in  the  heaven  of  best  society. 

"Where's  Van  Twiller?" 

"Who's  seen  Van  Twiller?" 

"What  has  become  of  Van  Twiller?" 

Delaney  picked  up  the  Evening  Post,  and  read,  with  a 
solemnity  that  betrayed  young  Firkins  into  exclaiming,  "By 
Jove,  now!" 

"Married,  on  the  10th  instant,  by  the  Rev.  Friar  Laurence, 
at  the  residence  of  the  bride's  uncle,  Montague  Capulet, 


H4    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

Esq.,  Miss  Adrienne  Le  Couvreur  to  Mr.  Ralph  Van  Twiller, 
both  of  this  city.  No  cards." 

"It  strikes  me,"  said  Frank  Livingstone,  who  had  been 
ruffling  the  leaves  of  a  magazine  at  the  other  end  of  the 
table,  "that  you  fellows  are  in  a  great  fever  about  Van 
Twiller." 

"So  we  are." 

"Well,  he  has  simply  gone  out  of  town." 

"Where?" 

"Up  to  the  old  homestead  on  the  Hudson." 

"It's  an  odd  time  of  year  for  a  fellow  to  go  into  the 
country." 

"He  has  gone  to  visit  his  mother,"  said  Livingstone. 

"In  February?" 

"I  didn't  know,  Delaney,  there  was  any  statute  in  Torce 
prohibiting  a  man  from  visiting  his  mother  in  February 
if  he  wants  to." 

Delaney  made  some  light  remark  about  the  pleasure  of 
communing  with  Nature  with  a  cold  in  her  head,  and  the 
topic  was  dropped. 

Livingstone  was  hand  in  glove  with  Van  Twiller,  and  if 
any  man  shared  his  confidence  it  was  Livingstone.  He  was 
aware  of  the  gossip  and  speculation  that  had  been  rife  in  the 
club,  but  he  either  was  not  at  liberty  or  did  not  think  it 
worth  while  to  relieve  our  curiosity.  In  the  course  of  a  week 
or  two  it  was  reported  that  Van  Twiller  was  going  to  Europe ; 
and  go  he  did.  A  dozen  of  us  went  down  to  the  Scotia  to 
see  him  off.  It  was  refreshing  to  have  something  as  positive 
as  the  fact  that  Van  Twiller  had  sailed. 

II 

Shortly  after  Van  Twiller's  departure  the  whole  thing 
came  out.  Whether  Livingstone  found  the  secret  too  heavy 
a  burden,  or  whether  it  transpired  through  some  indiscretion 
on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Vanrensselaer  Vanzandt  Van  Twiller, 
I  cannot  say;  but  one  evening  the  entire  story  was  in  the 
possession  of  the  club. 

Van  Twiller  had  actually  been  very  deeply  interested — 


MLLE.  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI  115 

not  in  an  actress,  for  the  legitimate  drama  was  not  her 
humble  walk  in  life,  but — in  Mademoiselle  Olympe 
Zabriski,  whose  really  perilous  feats  on  the  trapeze  had 
astonished  New  York  the  year  before,  though  they  had 
failed  to  attract  Delaney  and  me  the  night  we  wandered 
into  the  up-town  theatre  on  the  trail  of  Van  Twiller's 
mystery. 

That  a  man  like  Van  Twiller  should  be  fascinated  for  an 
instant  by  a  common  circus-girl  seems  incredible;  but  it  is 
always  the  incredible  thing  that  happens.  Besides,  Madem 
oiselle  Olympe  was  not  a  common  circus-girl;  she  was  a 
most  daring  and  startling  gymnaste,  with  a  beauty  and  a 
grace  of  movement  that  gave  to  her  audacious  performance 
almost  an  air  of  prudery.  Watching  her  wondrous  dexterity 
and  pliant  strength,  both  exercised  without  apparent  effort, 
it  seemed  the  most  natural  proceeding  in  the  world 
that  she  should  do  those  unpardonable  things.  She  had 
a  way  of  melting  from  one  graceful  posture  into  another, 
like  the  dissolving  figures  thrown  from  a  stereopticon.  She 
was  a  lithe,  radiant  shape  out  of  the  Grecian  mythology, 
now  poised  up  there  above  the  gas-lights,  and  now  gleaming 
through  the  air  like  a  slender  gilt  arrow. 

I  am  describing  Mademoiselle  Olympe  as  she  appeared 
to  Van  Twiller  on  the  first  occasion  when  he  strolled  into 
the  theatre  where  she  was  performing.  To  me  she  was  a 
girl  of  eighteen  or  twenty  years  of  age  (maybe  she  was  much 
older,  for  pearl-powder  and  distance  keep  these  people  per 
petually  young),  slightly  but  exquisitely  built,  with  sinews 
of  silver  wire;  rather  pretty,  perhaps,  after  a  manner,  but 
showing  plainly  the  effects  of  the  exhaustive  drafts  she  was 
making  on  her  physical  vitality.  Now,  Van  Twiller  was  an 
enthusiast  on  the  subject  of  calisthenics.  "If  I  had  a 
daughter,"  Van  Twiller  used  to  say,  "I  wouldn't  send  her  to 
a  boarding-school,  or  a  nunnery;  I'd  send  her  to  a  gym 
nasium  for  the  first  five  years.  Our  American  women  have 
no  physique.  They  are  lilies,  pallid,  pretty, — and  perish 
able.  You  marry  an  American  woman,  and  what  do  you 
marry?  A  headache.  Look  at  the  English  girls.  They  are 
at  least  roses,  and  last  the  season  through." 


n6    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

Walking  home  from  the  theatre  that  first  night,  it  flitted 
through  Van  Twiller's  mind  that  if  he  could  give  this  girl's 
set  of  nerves  and  muscles  to  any  one  of  the  two  hundred 
high-bred  women  he  knew,  he  would  marry  her  on  the  spot 
and  worship  her  forever. 

The  following  evening  he  went  to  see  Mademoiselle 
Olympe  again.  "Olympe  Zabriski,"  he  thought,  as  he 
sauntered  through  the  lobby,  "what  a  queer  name !  Olympe 
is  French,  and  Zabriski  is  Polish.  It  is  her  nom  de  guerre, 
of  course;  her  real  name  is  probably  Sarah  Jones.  What 
kind  of  creature  can  she  be  in  private  life,  I  wonder?  I 
•wonder  if  she  wears  that  costume  all  the  time,  and  if  she 
springs  to  her  meals  from  a  horizontal  bar.  Of  course  she 
rocks  the  baby  to  sleep  on  the  trapeze."  And  Van  Twiller 
went  on  making  comical  domestic  tableaux  of  Mademoiselle 
Zabriski,  like  the  clever,  satirical  dog  he  was,  until  the 
curtain  rose. 

This  was  on  a  Friday.  There  was  a  matinee  the  next 
day,  and  he  attended  that,  though  he  had  secured  a  seat  for 
the  usual  evening  entertainment.  Then  it  became  a  habit 
of  Van  Twiller's  to  drop  into  the  theatre  for  half  an  hour  or 
so  every  night,  to  assist  at  the  interlude,  in  which  she  ap 
peared.  He  cared  only  for  her  part  of  the  programme,  and 
timed  his  visits  accordingly.  It  was  a  surprise  to  himself 
when  he  reflected,  one  morning,  that  he  had  not  missed  a 
single  performance  of  Mademoiselle  Olympe  for  two  weeks. 

"This  will  never  do,"  said  Van  Twiller.  "Olympe" — he 
called  her  Olympe,  as  if  she  were  an  old  acquaintance,  and 
so  she  might  have  been  considered  by  that  time — "is  a  won 
derful  creature;  but  this  will  never  do.  Van,  my  boy,  you 
must  reform  this  altogether." 

But  half-past  nine  that  night  saw  him  in  his  accustomed 
orchestra  chair,  and  so  on  for  another  week.  A  habit  leads 
a  man  so  gently  in  the  beginning  that  he  does  not  per 
ceive  he  is  led — with  what  silken  threads  and  down  what 
pleasant  avenues  it  leads  him!  By  and  by  the  soft  silk 
threads  become  iron  chains,  and  the  pleasant  avenues 
Avernus ! 

Quite  a  new  element  had  lately  entered  into  Van  Twiller's 


MLLE.  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI  117 

enjoyment  of  Mademoiselle  Olympe's  ingenious  feats — a 
vaguely  born  apprehension  that  she  might  slip  from  that 
swinging  bar,  that  one  of  the  thin  cords  supporting  it  might 
snap,  and  let  her  go  headlong  from  the  dizzy  height.  Now 
and  then,  for  a  terrible  instant,  he  would  imagine  her  lying 
a  glittering,  palpitating  heap  at  the  foot-lights,  with  no  color 
in  her  lips !  Sometimes  it  seemed  as  if  the  girl  were  tempt 
ing  this  kind  of  fate.  It  was  a  hard,  bitter  life,  and  nothing 
but  poverty  and  sordid  misery  at  home  could  have  driven  her 
to  it.  What  if  she  should  end  it  all  some  night,  by  just  un 
clasping  that  little  hand?  It  looked  so  small  and  white  from 
where  Van  Twiller  sat  I 

This  frightful  idea  fascinated  while  it  chilled  him,  and 
helped  to  make  it  nearly  impossible  for  him  to  keep  away 
from  the  theatre.  In  the  beginning  his  attendance  had  not 
interfered  with  his  social  duties  or  pleasures;  but  now  he 
came  to  find  it  distasteful  after  dinner  to  do  anything  but 
read,  or  walk  the  streets  aimlessly,  until  it  was  time  to  go  to 
the  play.  When  that  was  over,  he  was  in  no  mood  to  go 
anywhere  but  to  his  rooms.  So  he  dropped  away  by  in 
sensible  degrees  from  his  habitual  haunts,  was  missed,  and 
began  to  be  talked  about  at  the  club.  Catching  some  intima 
tion  of  this,  he  ventured  no  more  in  the  orchestra  stalls,  but 
shrouded  himself  behind  the  draperies  of  the  private  box  in 
which  Delaney  and  I  thought  we  saw  him  on  one  occasion. 

Now,  I  find  it  very  perplexing  to  explain  what  Van 
Twiller  was  wholly  unable  to  explain  to  himself.  He  was 
not  in  love  with  Mademoiselle  Olympe.  He  had  no  wish 
to  speak  to  her,  or  to  hear  her  speak.  Nothing  could  have 
been  easier,  and  nothing  further  from  his  desire,  than  to 
know  her  personally.  A  Van  Twiller  personally  acquainted 
with  a  strolling  female  acrobat!  Good  heavens!  That 
was  something  possible  only  with  the  discovery  of  perpetual 
motion.  Taken  from  her  theatrical  setting,  from  her  lofty 
perch,  so  to  say,  on  the  trapeze-bar,  Olympe  Zabriski  would 
have  shocked  every  aristrocratic  fibre  in  Van  Twiller's  body. 
He  was  simply  fascinated  by  her  marvellous  grace  and  elan, 
and  the  magnetic  recklessness  of  the  girl.  It  was  very 
young  in  him  and  very  weak,  and  no  member  of  the  Sorosiss 


Ii8   THE  GREAT  MODERN  'AMERICAN  STORIES 

or  all  the  Sorosisters  together,  could  have  been  more  severe 
on  Van  Twiller  than  he  himself.  To  be  weak,  and  to  know 
it,  is  something  of  a  punishment  for  a  proud  man.  Van 
Twiller  took  his  punishment,  and  went  to  the  theatre, 
regularly. 

"When  her  engagement  comes  to  an  end,"  he  meditated, 
"that  will  finish  the  business." 

Mademoiselle  Olympe's  engagement  finally  did  come  to 
an  end,  and  she  departed.  But  her  engagement  had  been 
highly  beneficial  to  the  treasury-chest  of  the  up-town  theatre, 
and  before  Van  Twiller  could  get  over  missing  her  she  had 
returned  from  a  short  Western  tour,  and  her  immediate  re 
appearance  was  underlined  on  the  play-bills. 

On  a  dead-wall  opposite  the  windows  of  Van  Twiller's 
sleeping-room  there  appeared,  as  if  by  necromancy,  an  ag 
gressive  poster  with  Mademoiselle  Olympe  Zabriski  on 
it  in  letters  at  least  a  foot  high.  This  thing  stared  him  in 
the  face  when  he  woke  up,  one  morning.  It  gave  him  a 
sensation  as  if  she  had  called  on  him  overnight,  and  left  her 
card. 

From  time  to  time  through  the  day  he  regarded  that  poster 
with  a  sardonic  eye.  He  had  pitilessly  resolved  not  to  re 
peat  the  folly  of  the  previous  month.  To  say  that  this  moral 
victory  cost  him  nothing  would  be  to  deprive  it  of  merit. 
It  cost  him  many  internal  struggles.  It  is  a  fine  thing  to 
see  a  man  seizing  his  temptation  by  the  throat,  and  wrestling 
with  it,  and  trampling  it  under  foot  like  St.  Anthony.  This 
was  the  spectacle  Van  Twiller  was  exhibiting  to  the  angels. 

The  evening  Mademoiselle  Olympe  was  to  make  her  re 
appearance,  Van  Twiller,  having  dined  at  the  club  and 
feeling  more  like  himself  than  he  had  felt  for  weeks,  returned 
to  his  chamber,  and  putting  on  dressing-gown  and  slippers, 
piled  up  the  greater  portion  of  his  library  about  him,  and 
fell  to  reading  assiduously.  There  is  nothing  like  a  quiet 
evening  at  home  with  some  slight  intellectual  occupation, 
after  one's  feathers  have  been  stroked  the  wrong  way. 

When  the  lively  French  clock  on  the  mantel-piece, — a  base 
of  malachite  surmounted  by  a  flying  bronze  Mercury  with 
its  arms  spread  gracefully  on  the  air,  and  not  remotely  sug- 


MLLE.  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI  119 

gestive  of  Mademoiselle  Olympe  in  the  act  of  executing  her 
grand  flight  from  the  trapeze — when  the  clock,  I  repeat, 
struck  nine,  Van  Twiller  paid  no  attention  to  it.  That  was 
certainly  a  triumph.  I  am  anxious  to  render  Van  Twiller 
all  the  justice  I  can  at  this  point  of  the  narrative,  inasmuch 
as  when  the  half-hour  sounded  musically,  like  a  crystal  ball 
dropping  into  a  silver  bowl,  he  rose  from  the  chair  auto 
matically,  thrust  his  feet  into  his  walking  shoes,  threw  his 
overcoat  across  his  arm,  and  strode  out  of  the  room. 

To  be  weak  and  scorn  your  weakness,  and  not  be  able  to 
conquer  it,  is,  as  has  been  said,  a  hard  thing;  and  I  suspect 
it  was  not  with  unalloyed  satisfaction  that  Van  Twiller  found 
himself  taking  his  seat  in  the  back  part  of  the  private  box 
night  after  night  during  the  second  engagement  of  Madem 
oiselle  Olympe.  It  was  so  easy  not  to  stay  away ! 

In  this  second  edition  of  Van  Twiller's  fatuity,  his  case 
was  even  worse  than  before.  He  not  only  thought  of  Olympe 
quite  a  number  of  times  between  breakfast  and  dinner,  he 
not  only  attended  the  interlude  regularly,  but  he  began,  in 
spite  of  himself,  to  occupy  his  leisure  hours  at  night  by 
dreaming  of  her.  This  was  too  much  of  a  good  thing,  and 
Van  Twiller  regarded  it  so.  Besides,  the  dream  was  always 
the  same — a  harrowing  dream,  a  dream  singularly  adapted 
to  shattering  the  nerves  of  a  man  like  Van  Twiller.  He 
would  imagine  himself  seated  at  the  theatre  (with  all  the 
members  of  Our  Club  in  the  parquette),  watching  Madem 
oiselle  Olympe  as  usual,  when  suddenly  that  young  lady 
would  launch  herself  desperately  from  the  trapeze,  and 
come  flying  through  the  air  like  a  firebrand  hurled  at  his 
private  box.  Then  the  unfortunate  man  would  wake  up 
with  cold  drops  standing  on  his  forehead. 

There  is  one  redeeming  feature  in  this  infatuation  of  Van 
Twiller's  which  the  sober  moralist  will  love  to  look  upon, — 
the  serene  unconsciousness  of  the  person  who  caused  it. 
She  went  through  her  role  with  admirable  aplomb,  drew 
her  salary,  it  may  be  assumed,  punctually,  and  appears  from 
first  to  last  to  have  been  ignorant  that  there  was  a  miserable 
slave  wearing  her  chains  nightly  in  the  left-hand  proscenium- 
box. 


120    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

That  Van  Twiller,  haunting  the  theatre  with  the  per 
sistency  of  an  ex-actor,  conducted  himself  so  discreetly  as  not 
to  draw  the  fire  of  Mademoiselle  Olympe's  blue  eyes  shows 
that  Van  Twiller,  however  deeply  under  a  spell,  was  not 
in  love.  I  say  this,  though  I  think  if  Van  Twiller  had  not 
been  Van  Twiller,  if  he  had  been  a  man  of  no  family  and 
no  position  and  no  money,  if  New  York  had  been  Paris,  and 
Thirty-fourth  Street  a  street  in  the  Latin  Quarter — but  it 
is  useless  to  speculate  on  what  migh  have  happened.  What 
did  happen  is  sufficient. 

It  happened,  then,  in  the  second  week  of  Queen  Olympe's 
second  unconscious  reign,  that  an  appalling  Whisper  floated 
up  the  Hudson,  effected  a  landing  at  a  point  between  Spuy- 
ten  Duyvil  Creek  and  Cold  Spring,  and  sought  out  a  stately 
mansion  of  Dutch  architecture  standing  on  the  bank  of  the 
river.  The  Whisper  straightway  informed  the  lady  dwelling 
in  this  mansion  that  all  was  not  well  with  the  last  of  the 
Van  Twillers,  that  he  v/as  gradually  estranging  himself  from 
his  peers,  and  wasting  his  nights  in  a  play-house  watching 
a  misguided  young  woman  turning  unmaidenly  somersaults 
on  a  piece  of  wood  attached  to  two  ropes. 

Mrs.  Vanrensselaer  Vanzandt  Van  Twiller  came  down  to 
town  by  the  next  train  to  look  into  this  little  matter. 

She  found  the  flower  of  the  family  taking  an  early  break 
fast,  at  11  A.  M.,  in  his  cosey  apartments  on  Thirty- fourth 
Street.  With  the  least  possible  circumlocution  she  confronted 
him  with  what  rumor  had  reported  of  his  pursuits,  and  was 
pleased,  but  not  too  much  pleased,  when  he  gave  her  an  exact 
account  of  his  relations  with  Mademoiselle  Zabriski,  neither 
concealing  nor  qualifying  anything.  As  a  confession,  it  was 
unique,  and  might  have  been  a  great  deal  less  entertaining, 
Two  or  three  times,  in  the  course  of  the  narrative,  the  matron 
had  some  difficulty  in  preserving  the  gravity  of  her  counte 
nance.  After  meditating  a  few  minutes,  she  tapped  Varx 
Twiller  softly  on  the  arm  with  the  tip  of  her  parasol,  and 
invited  him  to  return  with  her  the  next  day  up  the  Hudson 
and  make  a  brief  visit  at  the  home  of  his  ancestors.  He 
accepted  the  invitation  with  outward  alacrity  and  inward 
disgust. 


MLLE.  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI  121 

When  this  was  settled,  and  the  worthy  lady  had  with 
drawn,  Van  Twiller  went  directly  to  the  establishment  of 
Messrs.  Ball,  Black,  and  Company  and  selected,  with  uner 
ring  taste,  the  finest  diamond  bracelet  procurable.  For  his 
mother?  Dear  me,  no!  She  had  the  family  jewels. 

I  would  not  like  to  state  the  enormous  sum  Van  Twiller 
paid  for  this  bracelet.  It  was  such  a  clasp  of  diamonds  as 
would  have  hastened  the  pulsation  of  a  patrician  wrist.  It 
was  such  a  bracelet  as  Prince  Camaralzaman  might  have 
sent  to  the  Princess  Badoura,  and  the  Princess  Badoura — 
might  have  been  very  glad  to  get. 

In  the  fragrant  Levant  morocco  case,  where  these  happy 
jewels  lived  when  they  were  at  home,  Van  Twiller  thought 
fully  placed  his  card,  on  the  back  of  which  he  had  written 
a  line  begging  Mademoiselle  Olympe  Zabriski  to  accept  the 
accompanying  trifle  from  one  who  had  witnessed  her  grace 
ful  performances  with  interest  and  pleasure.  This  was  not 
done  inconsiderately.  "Of  course  I  must  enclose  my  card, 
as  I  would  to  any  lady,"  Van  Twiller  had  said  to  himself; 
"a  Van  Twiller  can  neither  write  an  anonymous  letter  nor 
make  an  anonymous  present."  Blood  entails  its  duties  as 
well  as  its  privileges. 

The  casket  despatched  to  its  destination,  Van  Twiller  felt 
easier  in  his  mind.  He  was  under  obligations  to  the  girl 
for  many  an  agreeable  hour  that  might  otherwise  have  passed 
heavily.  He  had  paid  the  debt,  and  he  had  paid  it  en 
prince,  as  became  a  Van  Twiller.  He  spent  the  rest  of  the 
day  in  looking  at  some  pictures  at  Goupil's,  and  at  the  club, 
and  in  making  a  few  purchases  for  his  trip  up  the  Hudson* 
A  consciousness  that  this  trip  up  the  Hudson  was  a  disorderly 
retreat  came  over  him  unpleasantly  at  intervals. 

When  he  returned  to  his  rooms  late  at  night,  he  found  a 
note  lying  on  the  writing-table.  He  started  as  his  eye  caught 

the  words  " Theatre"  stamped  in  carmine  letters  on 

one  corner  of  the  envelope.  Van  Twiller  broke  the  seal 
with  trembling  fingers. 

Now,  this  note  sometime  afterwards  fell  into  the  hands 
of  Livingstone,  who  showed  it  to  Stuyvesant,  who  showed  it 


122    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

to  Delaney,  who  showed  it  to  me,  and  I  copied  it  as  a  liter 
ary  curiosity.     The  note  ran  as  follows: — 

MR  VAN  TWILLER  DEAR  SIR  —  i  am  verry  greatfull  to  you  for  that 
Bracelett.  it  come  just  in  the  nic  of  time  for  me.  The  Mademoiselle 
Zabriski  dodg  is  about  plaid  out.  My  beard  is  getting  to  much  for 
me.  i  shall  have  to  grow  a  mustash  and  take  to  some  other  line  of 
busyness,  i  dont  no  what  now,  but  will  let  you  no.  You  wont  feel 
bad  if  i  sell  that  Bracelett.  i  have  seen  Abrahams  Moss  and  he  says 
he  will  do  the  square  thing.  Pleas  accep  my  thanks  for  youre  Beau- 
tifull  and  Unexpected  present. 

Youre  respectfull  servent, 

CHARLES  MONTMORENCI  WALTERS. 

The  next  day  Van  Twiller  neither  expressed  nor  felt  any 
unwillingness  to  spend  a  few  weeks  with  his  mother  at  the 
old  homestead. 

And  then  he  went  abroad. 


A  PRODIGAL  IN  TAHITI  * 

BY  CHARLES  WARREN  STODDARD 

LET  this  confession  be  topped  with  a  vignette  done  in 
broad,  shadowless  lines  and  few  of  them — something 
like  this: 

A  little  flyblown  room,  smelling  of  garlic;  I  cooling  my 
elbows  on  the  oily  slab  of  a  table  (breakfast  for  one)  and 
looking  through  a  window  at  a  glaring  whitewashed  fence 
high  enough  to  shut  out  the  universe  from  my  point  of  sight. 
Yet  it  hid  not  all,  since  it  brought  into  relief  a  panting  cock 
(with  one  leg  in  a  string)  which  had  so  strained  to  com 
press  itself  into  a  doubtful  inch  of  shade  that  its  suspended 
claw  clutched  the  air  in  real  agony. 

Having  dazzled  my  eyes  with  this  prospect,  I  turned  grate 
fully  to  the  vanities  of  life  that  may  be  had  for  two  francs 
in  Tahiti.  Vide  bill  of  fare.  One  fried  egg,  like  the  eye 
of  some  gigantic  Albino;  potatoes  hollowed  out  bombshell 
fashion,  primed  with  liver-sausage,  very  ingenious  and  pala 
table.  The  naked  corpse  of  a  fowl  that  cared  not  to  live 
longer,  from  appearances,  yet  looked  not  happy  in  death. 

Item:  Wonder  if  there  is  a  more  ghastly  spectacle  than  a 
chicken  cooked  in  the  French  style;  its  knees  drawn  up  on 
its  breast  like  an  Indian  mummy,  while  its  blue-black,  par 
boiled,  and  melancholy  visage  tearfully  surveys  its  own  un- 
shrouded  remains.  After  a  brief  season  of  meditation  I 
said,  and  I  trust  I  meant  it,  "I  thank  the  Lord  for  all  these 
blessings."  Then  I  gave  the  corpse  of  the  chicken  Christian 
burial  under  a  fold  of  the  window-curtain,  disposed  of  the 
fried  eye  of  the  Albino,  and  transformed  myself  into  a  mortar 
for  the  time  being,  taking  potato-bombshells  according  to 
my  calibre. 

*  By  special  arrangement. 

123 


124    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

There  was  claret  all  the  while  and  plenty  of  butterless 
roll,  a  shaving  of  cheese,  a  banana,  black  coffee  and  cognac, 
when  I  turned  again  to  dazzle  myself  with  the  white  fence, 
and  saw  with  infinite  pity, — a  sentiment  perhaps  not  un 
mixed  with  a  suspicion  of  cognac  or  some  other  temporary 
humanizing  element — I  saw  for  a  fact  that  the  poor  cock 
had  wilted  and  lay  flat  in  the  sun  like  a  last  year's  duster. 
That  was  too  much  for  me.  I  wheeled  towards  the  door 
where  gleamed  the  bay  with  its  lovely  ridges  of  light ;  canoes 
drifting  over  it  drew  the  eye  after  them  irresistibly;  I  heard 
the  ship-calkers  on  the  beach  making  their  monotonous  clat 
ter,  and  the  drone  of  the  bareheaded  fruit-sellers  squatted  in 
rows  chatting  indolently  with  their  eyes  half  shut.  I  could 
think  of  nothing  but  bees  humming  over  their  own  sweet 
wares. 

About  this  time  a  young  fellow  at  the  next  table,  who  had 
scarcely  a  mouthful  of  English  at  his  command,  implored 
me  to  take  beer  with  him;  implying  that  we  might,  if  de 
sirable,  become  as  tight  as  two  bricks.  I  declined,  much  to 
his  admiration,  he  regarding  my  refusal  as  a  clear  case  of 
moral  courage,  whereas  it  arose  simply  and  solely  from  my 
utter  inability  to  see  his  treat  and  go  him  one  better. 

A  grown  person  in  Tahiti  has  an  eating  hour  allotted  to 
him  twice  a  day,  at  10  A.  M.  and  5  P.  M.  My  time  being  up 
I  returned  to  the  store  in  an  indifferent  frame  of  mind,  and 
upon  entering  the  presence  of  my  employer,  who  had  arrived 
a  moment  before  me,  I  was  immediately  covered  with  the  deep 
humiliation  of  servitude  and  withdrew  to  an  obscure  corner, 
while  Monsieur  and  some  naval  guests  took  absinthe  unblush- 
ingly,  which  was,  of  course,  proper  enough  in  them.  Call 
it  by  what  name  you  will,  you  cannot  sweeten  servility  to  my 
taste.  Then  why  was  I  there  and  in  bondage?  The  spirit 
of  adventure  that  keeps  life  in  us,  yet  comes  near  to  worrying 
it  out  of  us  now  and  then,  lured  me  with  my  handful  of  dol 
lars  to  the  Garden  of  the  Pacific.  "You  can  easily  get  work," 
said  some  one  who  had  been  there  and  didn't  want  it.  If 
work  I  must,  why  not  better  there  than  here,  thought  I ;  and 
the  less  money  I  take  with  me  the  surer  am  I  to  seek  that 
which  might  not  attract  me  under  other  circumstances.  A 


A  PRODIGAL  IN  TAHITI  125 

few  letters  which  proved  almost  valueless;  an  abiding  trust 
in  Providence,  afterward  somewhat  shaken,  I  am  sorry  to 
state,  which  convinces  me  that  I  can  no  longer  hope  to  travel 
as  a  shorn  lamb;  considerable  confidence  in  the  good  feeling 
of  my  f ellowmen ;  together  with  the  few  dollars  above  referred 
to,  comprised  my  all  when  I  set  foot  on  the  leaf-strewn  and 
shady  beach  of  Papute. 

Before  the  day  was  over  I  saw  my  case  was  almost  hope 
less;  I  was  one  too  many  in  a  very  meagre  congregation  of 
foreigners.  In  a  week  I  was  desperate,  with  poverty  and  dis 
grace  brooding  like  evil  spirits  on  either  hand.  Every  ten 
minutes  some  one  suggested  something  which  was  almost 
immediately  suppressed  by  the  next  man  I  met,  to  whom  I 
applied  for  further  information.  Teach,  said  one — there 
wasn't  a  pupil  to  be  had  in  the  dominion.  Clerkships  were 
out  of  the  question  likewise.  I  might  keep  store,  if  I  could 
get  anything  to  put  in  it;  or  go  farther,  as  some  one  sug 
gested,  if  I  had  money  enough  to  get  there.  I  thought  it 
wiser  to  endure  the  ills  I  had  than  fly  to  others  that  I  knew 
not  of.  In  this  state  I  perambulated  to  the  green  lanes  of  Pa 
pute,  conscious  that  I  was  drawing  down  tons  of  immaterial 
sympathy  from  hearts  of  various  nationalities,  beating  to  the 
music  of  regular  salaries  in  hard  cash,  and  the  inevitable 
ringing  of  their  daily  dinner-bell ;  and  I  continued  to  peram 
bulate  under  the  same  depressing  avalanches  for  a  fortnight 
or  more,  a  warning  to  the  generation  of  the  inexperienced 
that  persists  in  sowing  itself  broadcast  upon  the  edges  of  the 
earth,  and  learns  too  late  how  hard  a  thing  it  is  to  take  root 
under  the  circumstances. 

One  gloomy  day  I  was  seized  in  the  market-place  and  led 
before  a  French  gentleman  who  offered  me  a  bed  and  board 
for  such  manual  compensation  as  I  might  be  able  to  give 
him  in  his  office  during  the  usual  business  hours,  namely, 
from  daybreak  to  some  time  in  the  afternoon,  unless  it 
rained,  when  business  was  suspended,  and  I  was  dropped 
until  fair  weather  should  set  that  little  world  wagging  again. 

I  was  invited  to  enter  into  the  bosom  of  his  family,  in  fact, 
to  be  one  of  them,  and  no  single  man  could  ask  to  be  more; 


126    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

to  sit  at  his  table  and  hope  for  better  days,  in  which  diversion 
he  proposed  to  join  me  with  all  his  soul. 

With  an  emotion  of  gratitude  and  a  pang  at  being  thus 
early  a  subject  of  charity,  I  began  business  in  Papute,  and 
learned  within  the  hour  how  sharper  than  most  sharps  it  is 
to  know  only  your  own  mother-tongue  when  you're  away 
from  home. 

Nightly  I  walked  two  hot  and  dusty  miles  through  groves 
of  bread-fruit  and  colonnades  of  palms  to  my  new  master's. 
I  skirted,  with  loitering  steps,  a  placid  sea  whose  crystalline 
depths  sheltered  leagues  and  leagues  of  sun-painted  corals, 
where  a  myriad  fish,  dyed  like  the  rainbow,  sported  unceas 
ingly.  Springs  gushed  from  the  mountain,  singing  their 
song  of  joy;  the  winds  sang  in  the  dark  locks  of  the  syca 
more,  while  the  palm  boughs  clashed  like  cymbals  in  rhyth 
mical  accompaniment;  glad  children  chanted  their  choruses, 
and  I  alone  couldn't  sing,  nor  hum,  nor  whistle,  because  it 
doesn't  pay  to  work  for  your  board  and  pay  for  little  neces 
sities  out  of  your  own  pocket,  in  any  latitude  that  I  ever 
heard  of. 

We  lived  in  a  grove  of  ten  thousand  cocoa-palms  crown 
ing  a  hill-slope  to  the  west.  How  all-sufficient  it  sounds  as 
I  write  it  now,  but  how  little  I  cared  then,  for  many  reasons  I 
My  cottage  had  prior  tenants,  who  disputed  possession  with 
me,  winged  tenants  who  sought  admission  at  every  cranny, 
and  frequently  obtained  it  in  spite  of  me — these  were  not 
angels,  but  hens.  My  cottage  had  been  a  granary  until  it 
got  too  poor  a  receptacle  for  grains,  and  a  better  shelter  left 
it  open  to  the  barn-fowls  until  I  arrived.  They  hated  me, 
these  hungry  chickens;  they  used  to  sit  in  rows  on  the  win 
dow-sill  and  stare  me  out  of  countenance.  A  wide  bed 
stead,  corded  with  thongs,  did  its  best  to  furnish  my  apart 
ment.  A  narrow,  a  very  narrow  and  thin  ship's  mattress, 
that  had  been  a  bed  of  torture  for  many  a  sea-sick  soul  before 
it  descended  to  me ;  a  flat  pillow  like  a  pancake,  a  condemned 
horse-blanket  contributed  by  a  good-natured  Kanack  who 
raked  it  from  a  heap  of  refuse  in  the  yard,  together  with  two 
sacks  of  rice,  the  despair  of  those  hens  in  the  window,  were 
all  I  could  boast  of.  With  this  inventory  I  strove  (by  par- 


A  PRODIGAL  IN  TAHITI  127 

ticular  request)  to  be  one  of  those  who  were  comfortable 
enough  in  the  chateau  adjoining.  Summoned  peremptorily 
to  dinner,  I  entered  a  little  latticed  saloon  connected  with  the 
chateau  by  a  covered  walk,  discovered  Monsieur  seated  at 
table  and  already  served  with  soup  and  claret;  the  remainder 
of  the  company  served  themselves  as  they  best  could — and  I 
saw  plainly  enough  that  the  family  bosom  was  so  crowded 
already,  that  I  might  seek  in  vain  to  wedge  myself  into  any 
corner  of  it,  at  least  until  some  vacancy  occurred. 

After  dinner,  sat  on  a  sack  of  rice  in  my  room  while  it 
grew  dark  and  Monsieur  received  calls.  Wandered  down  to 
the  beach  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  and  lay  a  long  time  on  a  bed 
of  leaves,  while  the  tide  was  out  and  the  crabs  clattered 
along  shore  and  were  very  sociable.  Natives  began  to  kindle 
their  evening  fires  of  cocoanut  husks;  smoke,  sweet  as  in 
cense,  climed  up  to  the  plumes  of  the  palm-trees  and  was 
lost  among  the  stars.  Morsels  of  fish  and  bread-fruit  were 
offered  me  by  the  untutored  savage,  who  welcomed  me  to  his 
frugal  meal  and  desired  that  I  should  at  least  taste  before 
he  broke  his  fast.  Canoes  shot  out  from  dense,  shadowy 
points;  fishers  standing  in  the  bows  with  a  poised  spear  in 
one  hand,  a  blazing  palm-branch  held  aloft  in  the  other 
shed  a  warm  glow  of  light  over  their  superb  nakedness. 
Bathed  by  the  sea  in  a  fresh,  cool  spring,  and  returned  to  my 
little  coop,  which  was  illuminated  by  the  glare  of  fifty  float 
ing  beacons ;  looking  back  from  the  door  I  could  see  the  dark 
outlines  of  the  torch-bearers  and  hear  their  signal  calls  above 
the  low  growl  of  the  reef  a  half-mile  farther  out  from  shore. 
It  was  a  blessing  to  lie  awake  in  my  little  room  and  watch 
the  flicker  of  those  fires ;  to  think  how  Tahiti  must  look  on  a 
cloudless  night  from  some  heavenly  altitude.  The  ocean  still 
as  death,  the  procession  of  fishermen  sweeping  from  point  to 
point  within  the  reef,  till  the  island,  flooded  with  starlight 
and  torchlight,  lies  like  a  green  sea-garden  in  a  girdle  of 
flame. 

A  shrill  bell  called  me  from  my  bed  at  dawn.  I  was  not 
unwilling  to  rise,  for  half  the  night  I  lay  like  a  saint  on  the 
tough  thongs,  having  turned  over  in  sleep,  thereby  missing  the 
mattress  entirely.  Made  my  toilet  at  a  spring  on  the  way 


128    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

into  town;  saw  a  glorious  sunrise  that  was  as  good  as  break 
fast,  and  found  the  whole  earth  and  sea  and  all  that  in  them 
is  singing  again  while  I  listened  and  gave  thanks  for  that 
privilege.  At  10  A.  M.  I  went  to  breakfast  in  the  small  res 
taurant  where  I  have  sketched  myself  at  the  top  of  this  chron 
icle,  and  whither  we  may  return  and  begin  over  again  if  it 
please  you. 

I  was  about  to  remark  that  probably  most  melancholy  and 
homesickness  may  be  cured  or  alleviated  by  a  wholesome 
meal  of  victuals;  but  I  think  I  won't,  for,  on  referring  to 
my  note-book,  I  find  that  within  an  hour  after  my  return  to 
the  store  I  was  as  heart-sick  as  ever  and  wasn't  afraid  to 
say  so.  It  is  scarcely  to  be  wondered  at;  the  sky  was  dark; 
aboard  a  schooner  some  sailors  were  making  that  doleful 
whine  peculiar  to  them,  as  they  hauled  in  to  shore  and  tied  up 
to  a  tree  in  a  sifting  rain.  Then  everything  was  ominously 
still  as  though  something  disagreeable  were  about  to  happen; 
thereupon  I  doubled  myself  over  the  counter  like  a  half-shut 
jack-knife,  and  burying  my  face  in  my  hands  said  to  myself, 
"O,  to  be  alone  with  Nature!  her  silence  is  religion  and  her 
sounds  sweet  music."  After  which  the  rain  blew  over,  and  I 
was  sent  with  a  hand-cart  and  one  underfed  Kanack  to  a 
wharf  half  a  mile  away  to  drag  back  several  loads  of  pota 
toes.  We  two  hungry  creatures  struggled  heroically  to  do 
our  duty.  Starting  with  a  multitude  of  sacks  it  was  quite 
impossible  to  proceed  with,  we  grew  weaker  the  farther  we 
•went,  so  that  the  load  had  to  be  reduced  from  time  to  time, 
and  I  believe  the  amount  of  potatoes  deposited  by  the  way 
considerably  exceeded  the  amount  we  subsequently  arrived  at 
the  store  with.  Finding  life  a  burden,  and  seeing  the  legs 
of  the  young  fellow  in  harness  with  me  bend  under  him  in 
his  frantic  efforts  to  get  our  cart  out  of  a  rut  without  empty 
ing  it  entirely,  I  resolved  to  hire  a  substitute  at  my  own  ex 
pense,  and  save  my  remaining  strength  for  a  new  line  of 
business.  Thus  I  was  enabled  to  sit  on  the  wharf  the  rest 
of  the  afternoon  and  enjoy  myself  devising  new  means  of 
subsistence  and  watching  the  natives  swim. 

Some  one  before  me  found  a  modicum  of  sweets  in  his 
cup  of  bitterness,  and  in  a  complacent  hour  set  the  good 


A  PRODIGAL  IN  TAHITI  129 

against  the  evil  in  single  entry,  summing  up  the  same  to  his 
advantage.     I  concluded  to  do  it  myself,  and  did  it,  thus : 

EVIL  GOOD 

I  find  myself  in  a  foreign  land  But  I  may  do  as  I  please  in 
with  no  one  to  love  and  none  to  consequence,  and  it  is  nobody's 
love  me.  business  save  my  own. 

I  am  working  for  my  board  But  I  may  quit  as  soon  as  I 
and  lodging  (no  extras),  and£nd  feel  like  it,  and  shall  have  no  oc- 
it  very  unprofitable.  casion  to  dun  my  employer  for 

back  salary  so  long  as  I  stop  with 
him. 

My  clothes  are  in  rags.  I  shall  But  the  weather  is  mild  and 
soon  be  without  a  stitch  to  my  the  fig-tree  flourisheth.  More- 
back,  over  many  a  good  savage  has  gone 

naked  before  me. 

I  get  hungry  before  breakfast  But  fasting  is  saintly.  Day  by 
and  feel  faint  after  dinner.  What  day  I  grow  more  spiritual,  and 
are  two  meals  a  day  to  a  man  of  shall  shortly  be  a  fit  subject  for 
my  appetite?  translation  to  that  better  world 

which  is  doubtless  the  envy  of  all 
those  who  have  lost  it  by  over 
eating  and  drinking. 

Nothing  can  exceed  the  satisfaction  with  which  I  read  and 
reread  this  philosophical  summary,  but  I  had  relapses  every 
few  minutes  so  long  as  I  lived  in  Tahiti.  I  remember  one 
Sunday  morning,  a  day  I  had  all  to  myself,  when  I  cried 
out  of  the  depths  and  felt  better  after  it.  It  was  a  real  Sun 
day.  The  fowls  confessed  it  by  the  indifference  with  which 
they  picked  up  a  grain  of  rice  now  and  then  as  though  they 
weren't  hungry.  The  family  were  moving  about  in  an  un 
natural  way — some  people  are  never  themselves  on  the  Lord's 
day.  The  canoes  lay  asleep  off  upon  the  water,  evidently 
conscious  of  the  long  hours  of  rest  they  were  sure  of  having. 
To  sum  it  all,  it  seemed  as  though  the  cover  had  been  taken 
off  from  the  earth,  and  the  angels  were  sitting  in  big  circles 
looking  at  us.  Our  clock  had  run  down,  and  I  found  myself 
half  an  hour  too  early  at  mass.  Some  diminutive  native 
children  talked  together  with  infinite  gesticulation,  like  little 
old  men.  At  every  lag  in  the  conversation,  two  or  three  of 
them  would  steal  away  to  the  fence  that  surrounded  the 
church  and  begin  diligently  counting  the  pickets  thereof. 


130    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

They  were  evidently  amazed  at  what  they  considered  a  sin 
gular  coincidence,  namely,  that  the  number  of  pickets,  be 
ginning  at  the  front  gate  and  counting  to  the  right,  tallied 
exactly  with  the  do.  do.  beginning  at  the  do.  do.  and  count 
ing  to  the  left;  while  they  were  making  repeated  efforts  to 
get  at  the  heart  of  this  mystery,  the  priest  rode  up  on  horse 
back,  dismounted  in  our  midst,  and  we  all  followed  him  into 
chapel  to  mass. 

A  young  Frenchman  offered  me  holy-water  on  the  tips  of 
his  fingers,  and  I  immediately  decided  to  confide  in  him  to 
an  unlimited  extent  if  he  gave  me  the  opportunity.  It  was 
a  serious  disappointment  when  I  found  later  that  we  didn't 
know  six  words  in  any  common  tongue.  Concluded  to  be 
independent,  and  walked  off  by  myself.  Got  very  lonesome 
immediately.  Tried  to  be  meditative,  philosophical,  botan 
ical,  conchological,  and  in  less  than  an  hour  gave  it  up — 
homesick  again,  by  Jove! 

Strolled  to  the  beach  and  sat  a  long  time  on  a  bit  of  wreck 
partly  imbedded  in  the  sand;  consoled  by  the  surpassing 
radiance  of  sunset,  wondered  how  I  could  ever  have  repined, 
but  proceeded  to  do  it  again  as  soon  as  it  grew  dark.  Some 
natives  drew  near,  greeting  me  kindly.  They  were  evidently 
lovers;  talked  in  low  tones,  deeply  interested  in  the  most 
trivial  things,  such  as  a  leaf  falling  into  the  sea  at  our  feet 
and  floating  stem  up,  like  a  bowsprit;  he  probably  made 
some  poetic  allusion  to  it,  may  have  proposed  braving  the 
seas  with  her  in  a  shallop  as  fairy-like,  for  both  fell  a  dream 
ing  and  were  silent  for  some  time,  he  worshipping  her  with 
fascinated  eyes,  while  she,  woman-like,  pretended  to  be  all 
unconscious  of  his  admiration. 

Silently  we  sat  looking  over  the  sea  at  Morea,  just  visible 
in  the  light  of  the  young  moon  like  a  spirit  brooding  upon 
the  waters,  till  I  broke  the  spell  by  saying  "Good  night," 
which  was  repeated  in  a  chorus  as  I  withdrew  to  my  coop 
and  found  my  feathered  guests  had  beaten  in  the  temporary 
barricade  erected  in  the  broken  window,  entered  and  made 
themselves  at  home  during  my  absence — a  fact  that  scarcely 
endeared  the  spot  to  me.  Next  morning  I  was  unusually 
merry;  couldn't  tell  why,  but  tried  to  sing  as  I  made  my 


A  PRODIGAL  IN  TAHITI  131 

toilet  at  the  spring;  laughed  nearly  all  the  way  into  town, 
saying  my  prayers  and  blessing  God,  when  I  came  suddenly 
upon  a  horseshoe  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  Took  it  as  an 
omen  and  a  keepsake;  horseshoes  aren't  shed  everywhere  nor 
for  everybody.  I  thought  it  the  prophecy  of  a  change,  and 
at  once  cancelled  my  engagement  with  my  employer  without 
having  set  foot  into  his  house  farther  than  the  dining-room, 
or  made  any  apparent  impression  upon  the  adamantine  bosom 
of  his  family. 

After  formally  expressing  my  gratitude  to  Monsieur  for 
his  renewed  offers  of  hospitality,  I  turned  myself  into  the 
street  and  was  once  more  adrift  in  the  world.  For  the  space 
of  three  minutes  I  was  wild  with  joy  at  the  thought  of  my 
perfect  liberty.  Then  I  grew  nervous,  began  to  feel  un 
happy,  nay,  even  guilty,  as  though  I  had  thrown  up  a  good 
thing.  Concluded  it  was  rash  of  me  to  leave  a  situation 
where  I  got  two  meals  and  a  mattress,  with  the  privilege  of 
washing  at  my  own  expense.  Am  not  sure  that  it  wasn't 
unwise,  for  I  had  no  dinner  that  afternoon;  and  having  no 
bed  either,  I  crept  into  the  veranda  of  a  house  to  let  and 
dozed  till  daybreak. 

There  was  but  one  thing  to  live  for  now,  namely,  to  sea 
as  much  of  Tahiti  as  possible,  and  at  my  earliest  conven 
ience  return  like  the  prodigal  son  to  that  father  who  would 
doubtless  feel  like  killing  something  appropriate  as  soon  as 
he  saw  me  coming.  I  said  as  much  to  a  couple  of  brothers 
who  are  living  a  dream-life  over  yonder,  and  whose  wildest 
species  of  dissipation  for  the  last  seven  years  has  been  to 
rise  at  intervals  from  their  settees  in  the  arbor,  go  deliber 
ately  to  the  farther  end  of  the  garden  and  eat  several  man 
goes  in  cold  blood. 

To  comprehend  Tahiti,  a  man  must  lose  himself  in  forests 
whose  resinous  boughs  are  knotted  with  ribbons  of  sea-grass; 
there,  overcome  by  the  music  of  sibilant  waters  sifting 
through  the  antlers  of  the  coral,  he  is  supposed  to  sink  upon 
drifts  of  orange-blossoms  only  to  be  resuscitated  by  the  spray 
of  an  approaching  shower  crashing  through  the  green  soli 
tudes  like  an  army  with  chariots, — so  those  brothers  told, 
with  a  mango  poised  in  each  hand;  and  they  added  that  I 


132    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

should  have  an  official  document  addressed  to  the  best  blood 
in  the  kingdom,  namely,  Forty,  chief  of  Tahiti,  who  would 
undoubtedly  entertain  me  with  true  barbarian  hospitality, 
better  the  world  knows  not.  There  was  a  delay  for  some 
reason;  I,  rather  impatient,  and  scarcely  hoping  to  receive  so 
graceful  a  compliment  from  head-quarters,  trudged  on  alone 
with  a  light  purse  and  an  infinitesimal  bundle  of  necessities, 
caring  nothing  for  the  weather  nor  the  number  of  miles 
cleared  per  day,  since  I  laid  no  plans  save  the  one,  to  see  as 
much  as  I  might  with  the  best  grace  possible,  keeping  an  eye 
on  the  road  for  horseshoes.  Through  leagues  of  verdure  I 
wandered,  feasting  my  five  senses  and  finding  life  a  holiday 
at  last.  There  were  numberless  streams  to  be  crossed,  where 
I  loafed  for  hours  on  the  bridges,  satisfying  myself  with  sun 
shine.  Not  a  savage  in  the  land  was  freer  than  I.  No  man 
could  say  to  me,  "Why  stand  ye  here  idle?"  for  I  could  con 
tinue  to  stand  as  long  as  I  liked  and  as  idly  as  it  pleased  me, 
in  spite  of  him !  There  were  bridgeless  streams  to  be  forded, 
but  the  Tahitian  is  a  nomad  continually  wandering  from  one 
edge  of  his  faithful  world  to  the  other.  Moreover,  he  is  the 
soul  of  peace  towards  men  of  good-will;  I  was  invariably 
picked  up  by  some  bare-backed  Hercules,  who  volunteered  to 
take  me  over  the  water  on  his  brawny  brown  shoulders,  and 
could  have  easily  taken  two  like  me.  It  was  good  to  be  up 
there  while  he  strode  through  the  swift  current,  for  I  felt  that 
he  was  perfectly  able  to  carry  me  to  the  ends  of  the  earth 
without  stopping,  and  that  sense  of  reliance  helped  to  reas 
sure  my  faith  in  humanity. 

As  I  wandered,  from  most  native  houses  came  the  invita 
tion  to  enter  and  eat.  Night  after  night  I  found  my  bed  in 
the  comer  of  some  dwelling  whither  I  had  been  led  by  the 
master  of  it,  with  unaffected  grace.  It  wasn't  simply  show 
ing  me  to  a  spare  room,  but  rather  unrolling  the  best  mat  and 
turning  everything  to  my  account  so  long  as  it  pleased  me  to 
tarry.  Sometimes  the  sea  talked  in  its  sleep  not  a  rod  from 
the  house;  frequently  the  mosquitoes  accepted  me  as  a  deli 
cacy  and  did  their  best  to  dispose  of  me.  Once  I  awoke 
with  a  headache,  the  air  was  so  dense  with  the  odor  of  orange- 
blossoms. 


A  PRODIGAL  IN  TAHITI  133 

There  was  frequently  a  strip  of  blue  bay  that  ebbed  and 
flowed  languidly  and  had  to  be  launched  with;  or  a  very 
deep  and  melodious  spring,  asking  for  an  interview,  and,  I 
may  add,  it  always  got  it.  I  remember  one  miniature  castle 
built  in  the  midst  of  a  grassy  Venice  by  the  shore.  Its 
moats,  shining  with  gold-fish,  were  spanned  with  slender 
bridges;  toy  fences  of  bamboo  enclosed  the  rarer  clumps  of 
foliage,  and  there  was  such  an  air  of  tranquillity  pervading 
it  I  thought  I  must  belong  there.  Something  seemed  to  say, 
"Come  in."  I  went  in,  but  left  very  soon — the  place  was  so 
fairy-like,  I  felt  as  though  I  were  liable  to  step  through  it 
and  come  out  on  some  other  side,  and  I  wasn't  anxious  for 
such  a  change. 

I  ate  when  I  got  hungry,  a  very  good  sort  of  a  meal,  con 
sisting  usually  of  a  tiny  piglet  cooked  in  the  native  fashion, 
swathed  in  succulent  leaves  and  laid  between  hot  stones  till 
ready  for  eating ;  bread-fruit,  like  mashed  potato,  but  a  great 
deal  better;  orange-tea  and  cocoa-milk,  surely  enough  for 
two  or  three  francs.  Took  a  sleep  whenever  sleep  came 
along,  resting  always  till  the  clouds  or  a  shadow  from  the 
mountain  covered  me  so  as  to  keep  cool  and  comfortable. 
Natives  passed  me  with  salutations.  A  white  man  now  and 
then  went  by  barely  nodding,  or  more  frequently  eyeing  me 
with  suspicion  and  giving  me  as  much  of  his  dust  as  he 
found  convenient.  In  the  wider  fellowship  of  nature,  I  fore 
swore  all  blood  relations  and  blushed  for  the  representatives 
of  my  own  color  as  I  footed  it  right  royally.  Therefore,  I 
was  enabled  to  scorn  the  fellow  who  scorned  me  while  he 
flashed  the  steel  hoofs  of  his  charger  in  my  face  and  dashed 
on  to  the  village  we  were  both  approaching  with  the  dusk. 

What  a  spot  it  was!  A  long  lane  as  green  as  a  spring 
meadow,  lying  between  wall-like  masses  of  foliage  whose 
deep  arcades  were  frescoed  with  blossoms  and  festooned  with 
vines.  It  seemed  a  pathway  leading  to  infinity,  for  the 
blood-red  bars  of  sunset  glared  at  its  farther  end  as  though 
Providence  had  placed  them  there  to  keep  out  the  unregener- 
ated.  Not  a  house  visible  all  this  time,  nor  a  human,  though 
I  was  in  the  heart  of  the  hamlet.  Passing  up  the  turf  cush 
ioned  road  on  either  hand,  I  beheld,  through  a  screen  of 


134    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

leaves,  a  log  spanning  a  rivulet  that  was  softly  singing  its 
monody.  At  the  end  of  each  log  the  summer-house  of  some 
Tahitian,  who  sat  in  his  door  smoking  complacently.  It  was 
a  picture  of  still  life  with  a  suggestion  of  possible  motion;  a 
village  to  put  into  a  green-house,  water,  and  keep  fresh  for 
ever.  Let  me  picture  it  once  more— one  mossy  street  be 
tween  two  babbling  brooks,  and  every  house  thereof  set  each 
in  its  own  moated  wilderness.  This  was  Papeali. 

Like  rows  of  cages  full  of  chirping  birds  those  bamboo 
huts  were  distributed  up  and  down  the  street.  As  I  walked 
I  knew  something  would  cause  me  to  turn  at  the  right  time 
and  find  a  new  friend  ready  to  receive  me,  for  it  always 
•does.  So  I  walked  slowly  and  without  hesitation  or  impa 
tience  until  I  turned  and  met  him  coming  out  of  his  cage, 
crossing  the  rill  by  his  log  and  holding  out  his  hand  to  me 
in  welcome.  Back  we  went  together,  and  I  ate  and  slept 
there  as  though  it  had  been  arranged  a  thousand  years  ago — 
perhaps  it  was !  There  was  a  racket  up  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  lane,  by  the  chief's  house.  Songs  and  nose-flutings  upon 
the  night  air;  moreover,  a  bonfire  and  doubtless  much  nec 
tar;  too  much,  as  usual,  for  I  heard  such  cheers  as  the  soul 
gives  when  it  is  careless  of  consequences,  and  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  joys  of  barbarism  such  as  even  we  poor  Chris 
tians  cannot  wholly  withstand,  but  turning  our  backs  think 
we  are  safe  enough.  Commend  me  to  him  who  has  known 
temptation  and  not  shunned  it,  but  actually  withstood  it! 

It  was  the  dance,  as  ever  it  is  the  dance  where  all  the  as 
pirations  of  the  soul  find  expression  in  the  body;  those  bodies 
that  are  incarnate  souls  or  those  souls  that  are  spiritualized 
bodies,  inseparable,  whatever  they  are,  for  the  time  being. 
The  fire  glowed  fervently;  bananas  hung  out  their  tattered 
banners  like  decorations;  palms  rustled  their  silver  plumes 
aloft  in  the  moonlight ;  the  sea  panted  upon  its  sandy  bed  in 
heavy  sleep;  the  night-blooming  cereus  opened  its  waxen 
chambers  and  gave  forth  its  treasured  sweets.  Circle  after 
circle  of  swart  savage  faces  were  turned  upon  the  flame-lit 
arena  where  the  dancers  posed  for  a  moment  with  their  light 
drapery  gathered  about  them  and  held  carelessly  in  one  hand. 
Anon  the  music  chimed  forth ;  a  reiteration  of  chords  caught 


A  PRODIGAL  IN  TAHITI  135 

from  the  birds'  treble  and  the  wind's  bass.  Full  and  re 
sounding  syllables,  richly  poetical,  telling  of  orgies  and  of  the 
mysteries  of  the  forbidden  revels  in  the  charmed  valleys  of  the 
gods,  hearing  which  it  were  impossible  not  to  be  wrought 
to  madness,  and  the  dancers  thereat  went  mad,  dancing  with 
infinite  gesticulation,  dancing  to  whirlwinds  of  applause  till 
the  undulation  of  their  bodies  was  serpentine,  and  at  last  in 
frenzy  they  shrieked  with  joy,  threw  off  their  garments,  and 
Were  naked  as  the  moon.  So  much  for  a  vision  that  kept  me 
awake  till  morning,  when  I  plodded  on  in  the  damp  grass 
and  tried  to  forget  it,  but  couldn't  exactly  and  never  have  to 
this  hour.  Went  on  and  on  over  more  bridges  spanning  still- 
flowing  streams  of  silver,  past  springs  that  lay  like  great 
crystals  framed  in  moss  under  dripping  fern-clad  cliffs  that 
the  sun  never  reaches.  Came  at  last  to  a  shining  white 
washed  fort  on  an  eminence  that  commands  the  isthmus  con 
necting  the  two  hemispheres  of  Tahiti,  where  down  I  dropped 
into  a  narrow  valley  full  of  wind  and  discord  and  a  kind  of 
dreary  neglect  that  made  me  sick  for  any  other  place.  More 
refreshment  for  the  wayfarer,  but  to  be  paid  for  by  the  dish, 
and  therefore  limited.  Was  obliged  to  hate  a  noisy  fellow 
with  too  much  bushy  black  beard  and  a  freckled  nose,  and  to 
like  another  who  eyed  me  kindly  over  his  absinthe,  having 
first  mixed  a  glass  for  me.  A  native  asked  me  where  I  was 
going;  being  unable  to  give  any  satisfactory  answer,  he  con 
ducted  me  to  his  canoe,  about  a  mile  distant,  where  he  cut  a 
saplmg  for  a  mast,  another  for  a  gaff,  twisted  in  a  few  mo 
ments  a  cord  of  its  fibrous  bark,  rigged  a  sail  of  his  sleep 
ing-blanket,  and  we  were  shortly  waifted  onward  before  a 
light  breeze  between  the  reef  and  shore. 

Three  of  us  with  a  bull-pup  in  the  bows  dozed  under  the 
afternoon  sun.  He  of  the  paddle  awoke  now  and  then  to 
shift  sail,  beat  the  sea  impetuously  for  a  few  seconds,  and 
fall  asleep  again.  Voices  roused  me  occasionally,  greetings 
from  colonies  of  indolent  Kanacks  on  shore,  whose  business 
it  was  to  sit  there  till  they  got  hungry,  laughing  weariness  to 
scorn. 

Close  upon  our  larboard-bow  lay  one  of  the  islands  that 
had  bewitched  me  as  I  paced  the  shore  but  a  few  days  previ- 


136    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

ously;  under  us  the  measureless  gardens  of  the  sea  unmasked 
a  myriad  of  imperishable  blossoms,  centuries  old  some  of 
them,  but  as  fair  and  fresh  as  though  born  within  the  hour. 
All  that  afternoon  we  drifted  between  sea  and  shore,  and 
beached  at  sunset  in  a  new  land.  Foot-sore  and  weary,  I 
approached  a  stable  from  which  thrice  a  week  stages  were 
despatched  to  Papute. 

A  modern  pilgrim  finds  his  scrip  cumbersome,  if  he  has 
any,  and  deems  it  more  profitable  to  pay  his  coachman  than 
his  cobbler. 

I  climbed  to  my  seat  by  the  jolly  French  driver,  who  was 
continually  chatting  with  three  merry  nuns  sitting  just  back 
of  us,  returning  to  the  convent  in  Papute  after  a  vacation  re 
treat  among  the  hills.  How  they  enjoyed  the  ride  as  three 
children  might,  and  were  quite  wild  with  delight  at  meeting 
a  corpulent  pere,  who  smiled  amiably  from  his  saddle  and 
offered  to  show  them  the  interior  of  the  pretty  chapel  at  Faaa 
(only  three  a's  in  that  word) — the  very  one  I  grew  melan 
choly  in  when  I  was  a  man  of  business. 

So  they  hurled  themselves  madly  from  the  high  seat,  one 
after  the  other,  scorning  to  touch  anything  so  contaminating 
as  a  man's  hand,  though  it  looked  suicidal,  as  the  driver 
and  I  agreed  while  the  three  were  at  prayers  by  the  altar. 
Whipping  up  over  the  road  townward,  I  could  almost  recog 
nize  my  own  footprints  left  since  the  time  I  used  to  take  the 
dust  in  my  face  three  mornings  a  week  from  the  wheels  of 
that  very  vehicle  as  I  footed  it  in  to  business.  Passing  the 
spring,  my  toilet  of  other  days,  drawing  to  the  edge  of  the 
town,  we  stopped  being  jolly  and  were  as  proper  as  befitted 
travellers.  We  looked  over  the  wall  of  the  conrent  garden 
as  we  drove  up  to  the  gate,  and  saw  the  mother-superior 
hurrying  down  to  us  with  a  cumbersome  chair  for  the  relief 
of  the  nuns,  but  before  she  reached  us  they  had  cast  them 
selves  to  earth  again  in  the  face  of  destiny,  and  there  was 
kissing,  crying,  and  commotion  as  they  withdrew  under  the 
gateway  like  so  many  doves  seeking  shelter.  When  the  gate 
closed  after  them,  I  heard  them  all  cooing  at  once,  but  the 
world  knows  nothing  further. 

Where  would  I  be  dropped?  asked  the  driver.     In  the 


A  PRODIGAL  IN  TAHITI  137 

middle  of  the  street,  please  you,  and  take  half  my  little  whole 
for  your  ride,  sir!  He  took  it,  dropped  me  where  we  stood, 
and  drove  away,  I  pretending  to  be  very  much  at  my  ease. 
God  help  me  and  all  poor  hypocrites! 

I  sought  a  place  of  shelter,  or  rather  retirement,  for  the 
air  is  balm  in  that  country.  There  was  an  old  house  in  the 
middle  of  a  grassy  lawn  on  a  by-street.  Two  of  its  rooms 
were  furnished  with  a  few  papers  and  books,  and  certain 
gentlemen  who  contribute  to  its  support  lounge  in  when  they 
have  leisure  for  reading  or  a  chat.  I  grew  to  know  the  place 
familiarly.  I  stole  a  night's  lodging  on  its  veranda  in  the 
shadow  of  a  passion-vine,  but,  for  fear  of  embarrassing 
some  early  student  in  pursuit  of  knowledge,  I  passed  the 
second  night  on  the  floor  of  the  dilapidated  cook-house, 
where  the  ants  covered  me.  I  endured  the  tortures  of  one 
who  bares  his  body  to  an  unceasing  shower  of  sparks;  but  I 
survived. 

There  was,  in  this  very  cook-house,  a  sink  six  feet  in 
length  and  as  wide  as  a  coffin;  the  third  night  I  lay  like  a 
galvanized  corpse  with  his  lid  off  till  a  rat  sought  to  devour 
me,  when  I  took  to  the  streets  and  walked  till  morning.  By 
this  time  the  president  of  the  club,  whose  acquaintance  I  had 
the  honor  of,  tendered  me  the  free  use  of  any  portion  of  the 
premises  that  might  not  be  otherwise  engaged.  With  a  gleam 
of  hope  I  began  my  explorations.  Up  a  narrow  and  winding 
stair  I  found  a  spacious  loft.  It  was  like  a  mammoth 
tent,  a  solitary  centre-pole  its  only  ornament.  Creeping  into 
it  on  all-fours,  I  found  a  fragment  of  matting,  a  dry  crust, 
an  empty  soda-bottle — footprints  on  the  sands  of  time. 

"Poor  soul!"  I  gasped,  "where  did  you  come  from?  What 
did  you  come  for?  Whither,  O,  whither,  have  you  flown?" 

I  might  have  added,  How  did  you  manage  to  get  there? 
But  the  present  was  so  important  a  consideration,  I  had  no 
heart  to  look  beyond  it.  The  next  ten  nights  I  passed  in  the 
silent  and  airy  apartment  of  my  anonymous  predecessor. 
Ten  nights  I  crossed  the  unswept  floor  that  threatened  at 
every  step  to  precipitate  me  into  the  reading-room  below. 
With  a  faint  heart  and  hollow  stomach  I  threw  myself  upon 
my  elbow  and  strove  to  sleep.  I  lay  till  my  heart  stopped 


138    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

beating,  my  joints  were  wooden,  and  my  four  limbs  corky 
beyond  all  hope  of  reanimation.  There  the  mosquito  rev 
elled,  and  it  was  a  promising  place  for  centipedes. 

At  either  end  of  the  building  an  open  window  admitted  the 
tip  of  a  banana-leaf;  up  their  green  ribs  the  sprightly  mouse 
careered.  I  broke  the  backbones  of  these  banana-leaves, 
though  they  were  the  joy  of  my  soul  and  would  have  adorned 
the  choicest  conservatory  in  the  land.  Day  was  equally 
unprofitable  to  me.  My  best  friend  said,  "Why  not  return  to 
California?'*  Every  one  I  met  invited  me  to  leave  the  coun 
try  at  my  earliest  convenience.  The  American  consul  se 
cured  me  a  passage,  to  be  settled  for  at  home,  and  my  career 
in  that  latitude  was  evidently  at  an  end.  In  my  superfluous 
confidence  in  humanity,  I  had  announced  myself  as  a  cor 
respondent  for  the  press.  It  was  quite  necessary  that  I 
should  give  some  plausible  reason  for  making  my  appearance 
in  Tahiti  friendless  and  poor.  "I  am  a  correspondent,  friend 
less  and  poor,"  believing  that  any  one  would  see  truth  in  the 
face  of  it,  with  half  an  eye.  "Prove  it,"  said  one  who  knew 
more  of  the  world  that  I.  Then  flashed  upon  me  the  alarm 
ing  fact  that  I  couldn't  prove  it,  having  nothing  whatever  in 
my  possession  referring  to  it  in  the  slightest  degree.  It 
was  a  fatal  mistake  that  might  easily  have  been  avoided, 
but  was  too  well  established  to  be  rectified. 

In  my  chagrin  I  looked  to  the  good  old  bishop  for  consola 
tion.  Approaching  the  Mission  House  through  sunlit  clois 
ters  of  palms,  I  was  greeted  most  tenderly.  I  would  have 
gladly  taken  any  amount  of  holy  orders  for  the  privilege  of 
ending  my  troublous  days  in  the  sweet  seclusion  of  the  Mis 
sion  House. 

As  it  was,  I  received  a  blessing,  an  autograph,  and  a 
"God  speed"  to  some  other  part  of  creation.  Added  to  this 
I  learned  how  the  address  to  the  Forty  Chiefs  of  Tahiti  in 
behalf  of  the  foreign  traveler,  my  poor  self,  had  been  des 
patched  to  me  by  a  special  courier  who  found  me  not,  and 
doubtless  the  fetes  I  heard  of  and  was  forever  missing  marked 
the  march  of  that  messenger,  my  proxy,  in  his  triumphal 
progress.  In  my  innocent  degradation  it  was  still  necessary 
to  nourish  the  inner  man. 


A  PRODIGAL  IN  TAHITI  139 

/*• 

There  is  a  market  in  Papute  where,  under  one  broad  roof, 
threescore  hucksters  of  both  sexes  congregate  long  before 
daylight,  and,  while  a  few  candles  illumine  their  wares, 
patiently  await  custom.  A  half-dozen  coolies  with  an  eye 
to  business  serve  hot  coffee  and  chocolate  at  a  dime  per  cup 
to  any  who  choose  to  ask  for  it.  By  7  A.  M.  the  market  is 
so  nearly  sold  out  that  only  the  more  plentiful  fruits  of  the 
country  are  to  be  obtained  at  any  price.  A  prodigal  cannot 
long  survive  on  husks,  unless  he  have  coffee  to  wash  them 
down;  I  took  my  cup  of  it  with  two  spoonfuls  of  sugar  and 
ants  dipped  out  of  a  cigar  box,  and  a  crust  of  bread  into  the 
bargain,  sitting  on  a  bench  in  the  market-place,  with  a  coolie 
and  a  Kanack  on  either  hand. 

It  was  not  the  coffee  nor  the  sugared  ants  that  I  gave  my 
dime  for,  but  rather  for  the  privilege  of  sitting  in  the  midst 
of  men  and  women  who  were  willing  to-  accept  me  as  a  friend 
and  helpmate,  without  questioning  my  ancestry,  and  any 
one  of  whom  would  go  me  halves  in  the  most  disinterested 
manner.  Then  there  was  sure  to  be  some  superb  fellow  close 
at  hand  with  a  sensuous  lip  curled  under  his  nostril,  a 
glimpse  of  which  gave  me  a  dime's  worth  of  satisfaction  and 
more  too.  Having  secreted  a  French  roll,  five  cents,  all  hot, 
under  my  coat,  and  gathered  the  bananas  that  would  fall  in 
the  yard  so  seasonably,  I  made  my  day  as  brief  and  com 
fortable  as  possible  by  filling  up  with  water  from  time  to 
time. 

The  man  who  had  passed  a  grimy  chop-house,  wherein  a 
frowzy  fellow  sat  at  his  cheap  spread,  without  envying  the 
frowzy  fellow  his  cheap  spread  cannot  truly  sympathize  with 
me. 

The  man  who  has  not  felt  a  great  hollow  in  his  stomach 
which  he  found  necessary  to  fill  at  the  first  fountain  he 
came  to,  or  go  over  on  his  beam  ends  for  lack  of  ballast,  can 
not  fall  upon  my  neck  and  call  me  brother. 

At  daybreak  I  haunted  those  street  fountains,  waiting  my 
turn  while  French  cooks  filled  almost  fathomless  kegs,  and 
coolies  filled  potbellied  jars,  and  Kanacks  filled  their  hollow 
bamboos  that  seemed  fully  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  length. 
There  I  meekly  made  my  toilet,  took  my  first  course  for 


140    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

breakfast,  rinsed  out  my  handkerchiefs  and  stockings,  and 
went  my  way.  The  whole  performance  was  embarrassing, 
because  I  was  a  novice  and  a  dozen  people  watched  me  in 
curious  silence.  I  had  also  a  boot  with  a  suction  in  the  toe; 
there  is  dust  in  Papute;  while  I  walked  that  boot  loaded  and 
discharged  itself  in  a  manner  that  amazed  and  amused  a 
small  mob  of  little  natives  who  followed  me  in  my  free  ex 
hibition,  advertising  my  shooting-boot  gratuitously. 

I  was  altogether  shabby  in  my  outward  appearance,  and 
cannot  honestly  upbraid  any  resident  of  the  town  for  his 
neglect  of  me.  I  know  that  I  suffered  the  agony  of  shame  and 
the  pangs  of  hunger,  but  they  were  nothing  to  the  utter  loneli 
ness  I  felt  as  I  wandered  about  with  my  heart  on  my  sleeve, 
and  never  a  bite  from  so  much  as  a  daw. 

Did  you  ever  question  the  possibility  of  a  man's  temporary 
transformation  under  certain  mental,  moral,  or  physical  con 
ditions?  There  are  times  when  he  certainly  isn't  what  he 
was,  yet  may  be  more  and  better  than  he  has  been  if  you  give 
him  time  enough. 

I  began  to  think  I  had  either  suffered  this  transformation 
or  been  maliciously  misinformed  as  to  my  personality.  Was 
I  truly  what  I  represented  myself  to  be,  or  had  I  been  a  living 
deception  all  my  days?  No  longer  able  to  identify  myself 
as  any  one  in  particular,  it  occurred  to  me  that  it  would  be 
well  to  address  a  few  lines  to  the  gentleman  I  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  calling  "father,"  asking  for  some  particulars 
concerning  his  absent  son.  I  immediately  drew  up  this 
document  ready  for  mailing: — 

MOSQUITO  HALL,  CENTIPEDE  AVENUE, 

PAPUTE 

DEAR  SIR:  A  nondescript  awaits  identification  at  this 
office.  Answers  to  the  names  at  the  foot  of  this  page,  be 
lieves  himself  to  be  your  son,  to  have  been  your  son,  or  about 
to  be  something  equally  near  and  dear  to  you.  He  can  re 
peat  several  chapters  of  the  New  Testament  at  the  shortest 
notice;  recites  most  of  the  Catechism  and  Commandments; 
thinks  he  would  recognize  two  sisters  and  three  brothers  at 
sight,  and  know  his  mother  with  his  eyes  shut. 


A  PRODIGAL  IN  TAHITI  141 

He  likewise  confesses  to  the  usual  strawberry-mark  in 
fast  colors.  If  you  will  kindly  send  by  return  mail  a  few 
dollars,  he  will  clothe,  feed,  and  water  himself  and  return 
immediately  to  those  arms,  which,  if  his  memory  does  not 
belie  him,  have  more  than  once  sheltered  his  unworthy  frame. 
I  have,  dear  sir,  the  singular  fortune  to  be  the  article  above 
described. 

The  six  months  which  would  elapse  before  I  could  hope 
for  an  answer  would  probably  have  found  me  past  all  recog 
nition,  so  I  ceased  crying  to  the  compassionate  bowels  of 
Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry,  waiting  with  haggard  patience  the 
departure  of  the  vessel  that  was  to  bear  me  home  with  a 
palpable  C.  O.  D.  tacked  on  to  me.  Those  last  hours  were 
brightened  by  the  delicate  attentions  of  a  few  good  souls  who 
learned,  too  late,  the  shocking  state  of  my  case.  Thanks  to 
them,  I  slept  well  thereafter  in  a  real  bed,  and  was  sure 
of  dinners  that  wouldn't  rattle  in  me  like  a  withered  kernel 
in  an  old  nutshell. 

I  had  but  to  walk  to  the  beach,  wave  my  lily  hand,  heavily 
tanned  about  that  time,  when  lo!  a  boat  was  immediately 
despatched  from  the  plump  little  corvette  "Cheveret,"  where 
the  tricolor  waved  triumphantly  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  all 
the  year  round. 

Such  capital  French  dinners  as  I  had  there,  such  offers 
of  bed  and  board  and  boundless  sympathy  as  were  made  me 
by  those  dear  fellows  who  wore  the  gold-lace  and  had  a 
piratical-looking  cabin  all  to  themselves,  were  enough  to 
wring  a  heart  that  had  been  nearly  wrung  out  in  its  battle 
with  life  in  Tahiti. 

No  longer  I  walked  the  streets  as  one  smitten  with  the 
plague;  or  revolved  in  envious  circles  about  the  market-place, 
where  I  could  have  got  my  fill  for  a  half-dollar,  but  had 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  No  longer  I  went  at  day 
break  to  swell  the  procession  at  the  water-spout,  or  sat  on  the 
shore  the  picture  of  despair,  waiting  sunrise,  finding  it  my 
sole  happiness  to  watch  a  canoe-load  of  children  drifting  out 
upon  the  bay,  singing  like  a  railful  of  larks;  nor  walked 
solitary  through  the  night  up  and  down  the  narrow  streets 


142    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

wherein  the  gendarmes  had  learned  to  pass  me  unnoticed, 
with  my  hat  under  my  arm  and  my  heart  in  my  throat. 
Those  delicious  moons  always  seduced  me  from  my  natural 
sleep,  and  I  sauntered  through  the  cocoa-groves  whose  boughs 
glistened  like  row  after  row  of  crystals,  whose  shadows  were 
as  mosaics  wrought  in  blocks  of  silver. 

I  used  to  nod  at  the  low  whitewashed  "calabooses"  fairly 
steaming  in  the  sun,  wherein  Herman  Melville  got  some 
chapters  of  Omoo. 

Over  and  over  again  I  tracked  the  ground  of  that  delicious 
story,  saying  to  the  bread-fruit  trees  that  had  sheltered  him, 
"Shelter  me  also,  and  whoever  shall  follow  after  so  long  as 
your  branches  quiver  in  the  wind." 

O,  reader  of  Omoo,  think  of  "Motoo-Otoo"  actually 
looking  warlike  in  these  sad  days,  with  a  row  of  new  can 
nons  around  its  edge,  and  pyramids  of  balls  as  big  as  cocoa- 
nuts  covering  its  shady  centre. 

Walking  alone  in  those  splendid  nights  I  used  to  hear  a 
dry,  ominous  coughing  in  the  huts  of  the  natives.  I  felt  as 
though  I  were  treading  upon  the  brinks  of  half-dug  graves, 
and  I  longed  to  bring  a  respite  to  the  doomed  race. 

One  windy  afternoon  we  cut  our  stern  hawser  in  a  fair 
wind  and  sailed  out  of  the  harbor;  I  felt  a  sense  of  relief, 
and  moralized  for  five  minutes  without  stopping.  Then  I 
turned  away  from  all  listeners  and  saw  those  glorious  green 
peaks  growing  dim  in  the  distance;  the  clouds  embraced 
them  in  their  profound  secrecy;  like  a  lovely  mirage  Tahiti 
floated  upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea.  Between  sea  and  sky  was 
swallowed  up  vale,  garden,  and  water- fall;  point  after  point 
crowded  with  palms;  peak  above  peak  in  that  eternal  crown 
of  beauty,  and  with  them  the  nation  of  warriors  and  lovers 
falling  like  the  leaf,  but  unlike  it,  with  no  followers  in  the 
new  season. 


THE  OUTCASTS  OF  POKER  FLAT  * 

BY  FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE 

AS  Mr.  John  Oakhurst,  gambler,  stepped  into  the  main 
street  of  Poker  Flat  on  the  morning  of  the  twenty- 
third  of  November,  1850,  he  was  conscious  of  a 
change  in  its  moral  atmosphere  since  the  preceding  night. 
Two  or  three  men,  conversing  earnestly  together,  ceased  as 
he  approached,  and  exchanged  significant  glances.  There 
was  a  Sabbath  lull  in  the  air,  which,  in  a  settlement  unused 
to  Sabbath  influences,  looked  ominous. 

Mr.  Oakhurst's  calm,  handsome  face  betrayed  small  con 
cern  of  these  indications.  Whether  he  was  conscious  of  any 
predisposing  cause,  was  another  question.  "I  reckon  they're 
after  somebody,"  he  reflected;  "likely  it's  me."  He  returned 
to  his  pocket  the  handkerchief  with  which  he  had  been 
whipping  away  the  red  dust  of  Poker  Flat  from  his  neat 
boots,  and  quietly  discharged  his  mind  of  any  further  con 
jecture. 

In  point  of  fact,  Poker  Flat  was  "after  somebody."  It 
had  lately  suffered  the  loss  of  several  thousand  dollars,  two 
valuable  horses,  and  a  prominent  citizen.  It  was  expe 
riencing  a  spasm  of  virtuous  reaction,  quite  as  lawless  and 
ungovernable  as  any  of  the  acts  that  had  provoked  it.  A 
secret  committee  had  determined  to  rid  the  town  of  all  im 
proper  persons.  This  was  done  permanently  in  regard  of 
two  men  who  were  then  hanging  from  the  boughs  of  a  syca 
more  in  the  gulch,  and  temporarily  in  the  banishment  of 
certain  other  objectionable  characters.  I  regret  to  say  that 
some  of  these  were  ladies.  It  is  but  due  to  the  sex,  how 
ever,  to.  state  that  their  impropriety  was  professional,  and. 


*By  arrangement  with  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 

143 


144    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

it  was  only  in  such  easily  established  standards  of  evil  that 
Poker  Flat  ventured  to  sit  in  judgment. 

Mr.  Oakhurst  was  right  in  supposing  that  he  was  included 
in  this  category.  A  few  of  the  committee  had  urged  hang 
ing  him  as  a  possible  example,  and  a  sure  method  of  reim 
bursing  themselves  from  his  pockets  of  the  sums  he  had 
won  from  them.  "It's  agin  justice,"  said  Jim  Wheeler,  "to 
let  this  yer  young  man  from  Roaring  Camp — an  entire 
stranger — carry  away  our  money."  But  a  crude  sentiment 
of  equity  residing  in  the  breasts  of  those  who  had  been 
fortunate  enough  to  win  from  Mr.  Oakhurst  overruled  this 
narrower  local  prejudice. 

Mr.  Oakhurst  received  his  sentence  with  philosophic  calm 
ness,  none  the  less  coolly  that  he  was  aware  of  the  hesitation 
of  his  judges.  He  was  too  much  of  a  gambler  not  to  accept 
Fate.  With  him  life  was  at  best  an  uncertain  game,  and  he 
recognized  the  usual  percentage  in  favor  of  the  dealer. 

A  body  of  armed  men  accompanied  the  deported  wicked 
ness  of  Poker  Flat  to  the  outskirts  of  the  settlement.  Be 
sides  Mr.  Oakhurst,  who  was  known  to  be  a  coolly  desperate 
man,  and  for  those  intimidation  the  armed  escort  was  in 
tended,  the  expatriated  party  consisted  of  a  young  woman 
familiarly  known  as  "The  Duchess";  another,  who  had 
gained  the  infelicitous  title  of  "Mother  Shipton";  and 
"Uncle  Billy,"  a  suspected  sluice-robber  and  confirmed 
drunkard.  The  cavalcade  provoked  no  comments  from  the 
spectators,  nor  was  any  word  uttered  by  the  escort.  Only, 
when  the  gulch  which  marked  the  uttermost  limit  of  Poker 
Flat  was  reached,  the  leader  spoke  briefly  and  to  the  point. 
The  exiles  were  forbidden  to  return  at  the  peril  of  their  lives. 

As  the  escort  disappeared,  their  pent-up  feelings  found 
vent  in  a  few  hysterical  tears  from  The  Duchess,  some 
bad  language  from  Mother  Shipton,  and  a  Parthian  volley 
of  expletives  from  Uncle  Billy.  The  philosophic  Oakhurst 
alone  remained  silent.  He  listened  calmly  to  Mother  Ship- 
ton's  desire  to  cut  somebody's  heart  out,  to  the  repeated  state 
ments  of  The  Duchess  that  she  would  die  in  the  road,  and 
to  the  alarming  oaths  that  seemed  to  be  bumped  out  of  Uncle 
Billy  as  he  rode  forward.  With  the  easy  good-humor  char- 


THE  OUTCASTS  OF  POKER  FLAT          145 

acteristic  of  his  class,  he  insisted  upon  exchanging  his  own 
riding-horse,  Five  Spot,  for  the  sorry  mule  which  the 
Duchess  rode.  But  even  this  act  did  not  draw  the  party 
into  any  closer  sympathy.  The  young  woman  readjusted  her 
somewhat  draggled  plumes  with  a  feeble,  faded  coquetry; 
Mother  Shipton  eyed  the  possessor  of  Five  Spot  with 
malevolence,  and  Uncle  Billy  included  the  whole  party  in 
one  sweeping  anathema. 

The  road  to  Sandy  Bar — a  camp  that,  not  having  as  yet 
experienced  the  regenerating  influences  of  Poker  Flat,  con 
sequently  seemed  to  offer  some  invitation  to  the  emigrants — 
lay  over  a  steep  mountain  range.  It  was  distant  a  day's 
severe  journey.  In  that  advanced  season,  the  party  soon 
passed  out  of  the  moist,  temperate  regions  of  the  foot-hills 
into  the  dry,  cold,  bracing  air  of  the  Sierras.  The  trail  was 
narrow  and  difficult.  At  noon  the  Duchess,  rolling  out  of 
her  saddle  upon  the  ground,  declared  her  intention  of  going 
no  farther,  and  the  party  halted. 

The  spot  was  singularly  wild  and  impressive.  A  wooded 
amphitheatre,  surrounded  on  three  sides  by  precipitous  cliffs 
of  naked  granite,  sloped  gently  toward  the  crest  of  another 
precipice  that  overlooked  the  valley.  It  was  undoubtedly 
the  most  suitable  spot  for  a  camp,  had  camping  been  ad 
visable.  But  Mr.  Oakhurst  knew  that  scarcely  half  the 
journey  to  Sandy  Bar  was  accomplished,  and  the  party  were 
not  equipped  or  provisioned  for  delay.  This  fact  he  pointed 
out  to  his  companions  curtly,  with  a  philosophic  commentary 
on  the  folly  of  "throwing  up  their  hand  before  the  game  was 
played  out."  But  they  were  furnished  with  liquor,  which 
in  this  emergency  stood  them  in  place  of  food,  fuel,  rest,  and 
prescience.  In  spite  of  his  remonstrances,  it  was  not  long 
before  they  were  more  or  less  under  its  influence.  Uncle 
Billy  passed  rapidly  from  a  bellicose  state  into  one  of  stupor, 
the  Duchess  became  maudlin,  and  Mother  Shipton  snored. 
Mr.  Oakhurst  alone  remained  erect,  leaning  against  a  rock, 
calmly  surveying  them. 

Mr.  Oakhurst  did  not  drink.  It  interfered  with  a  profes 
sion  which  required  coolness,  impassiveness,  and  presence 
of  mind,  and,  in  his  own  language,  he  "couldn't  afford  it" 


146   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN,  STORIES 

As  he  gazed  at  his  recumbent  fellow-exiles,  the  loneliness 
begotten  of  his  pariah-trade,  his  habits  of  life,  his  very  vices, 
for  the  first  time  seriously  oppressed  him.  He  bestirred  him 
self  in  dusting  his  black  clothes,  washing  his  hands  and 
face,  and  other  acts  characteristic  of  his  studiously  neat 
habits,  and  for  a  moment  forgot  his  annoyance.  The  thought 
of  deserting  his  weaker  and  more  pitiable  companions  never 
perhaps  occurred  to  him.  Yet  he  could  not  help  feeling  the 
want  of  that  excitement  which,  singularly  enough,  was  most 
conducive  to  that\calm  equanimity  for  which  he  was  notori 
ous.  He  looked  at  the  gloomy  walls  that  rose  a  thousand 
feet  sheer  above  the  circling  pines  around  him;  at  the  sky, 
ominously  clouded;  at  the  valley  below,  already  deepening 
into  shadow.  And,  doing  so,  suddenly  he  heard  his  own 
name  called. 

A  horseman  slowly  ascended  the  trail.  In  the  fresh,  open 
face  of  the  new-comer  Mr.  Oakhurst  recognized  Tom  Sim- 
son,  otherwise  known  as  "The  Innocent"  of  Sandy  Bar.  He 
had  met  him  some  months  before  over  a  "little  game,"  and 
had,  with  perfect  equanimity,  won  the  entire  fortune — 
amounting  to  some  forty  dollars — of  that  guileless  youth. 
After  the  game  was  finished,  Mr.  Oakhurst  drew  the  youth 
ful  speculator  behind  the  door  and  thus  addressed  him; 
"Tommy,  you're  a  good  little  man,  but  you  can't  gamble 
worth  a  cent.  Don't  try  it  over  again."  He  then  handed 
him  his  money  back,  pushed  him  gently  from  the  room,  and 
so  made  a  devoted  slave  of  Tom  Simson. 

There  was  a  remembrance  of  this  in  his  boyish  and  en 
thusiastic  greeting  of  Mr.  Oakhurst.  He  had  started,  he 
said,  to  go  to  Poker  Flat  to  seek  his  fortune.  "Alone?"  No, 
not  exactly  alone;  in  fact — a  giggle — he  had  run  away  with 
Piney  Woods.  Didn't  Mr.  Oakhurst  remember  Piney?  She 
that  used  to  wait  on  the  table  at  the  Temperance  House? 
They  had  been  engaged  a  long  time,  but  old  Jake  Woods  had 
objected,  and  so  they  had  run  away,  and  were  going  to 
Poker  Flat  to  be  married,  and  here  they  were.  And  they 
were  tired  out,  and  how  lucky  it  was  they  had  found  a  place 
to  camp  and  company.  All  this  the  Innocent  delivered 
rapidly,  while  Piney — a  stout,  comely  damsel  of  fifteen — 


THE  OUTCASTS  OF  POKER  FLAT          147 

emerged  from  behind  the  pine-tree,  where  she  had  been  blush 
ing  unseen,  and  rode  to  the  side  of  her  lover. 

Mr.  Oakhurst  seldom  troubled  himself  with  sentiment, 
still  less  with  propriety;  but  he  had  a  vague  idea  that  the 
situation  was  not  felicitous.  He  retained,  however,  his  pres 
ence  of  mind  sufficiently  to  kick  Uncle  Billy,  who  was  about 
to  say  something,  and  Uncle  Billy  was  sober  enough  to  rec 
ognize  in  Mr.  Oakhurst's  kick  a  superior  power  that  would 
not  bear  trifling.  He  then  endeavored  to  dissuade  Tom 
Simson  from  delaying  further,  but  in  vain.  He  even  pointed 
out  the  fact  that  there  was  no  provision,  nor  means  of  mak 
ing  a  camp.  But,  unluckily,  "The  Innocent"  met  this  ob 
jection  by  assuring  the  party  that  he  was  provided  with  an 
extra  mule  loaded  with  provisions,  and  by  the  discovery  of 
a  rude  attempt  at  a  log-house  near  the  trail.  "Piney  can 
stay  with  Mrs.  Oakhurst,''  said  the  Innocent,  pointing  to 
the  Duchess,  "and  I  can  shift  for  myself." 

Nothing  but  Mr.  Oakhurst's  admonishing  foot  saved 
Uncle  Billy  from  bursting  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  As  it 
was,  he  felt  compelled  to  retire  up  the  canon  until  he  could 
recover  his  gravity.  There  he  confided  the  joke  to  the  tall 
pine  trees,  with  many  slaps  of  his  leg,  contortions  of  his 
face,  and  the  usual  profanity.  But  when  he  returned  to  the 
party,  he  found  them  seated  by  a  fire — for  the  air  had  grown 
strangely  chill  and  the  sky  overcast — in  apparently  amicable 
conversation.  Piney  was  actually  talking  in  an  impulsive, 
girlish  fashion  to  the  Duchess,  who  was  listening  with  an  in 
terest  and  animation  she  had  not  shown  for  many  days.  The 
Innocent  was  holding  forth,  apparently  with  equal  effect,  to 
Mr.  Oakhurst  and  Mother  Shipton,  who  was  actually  relax 
ing  into  amiability.  "Is  this  yer  a  d — d  picnic?"  said  Uncle 
Billy,  with  inward  scorn,  as  he  surveyed  the  sylvan  group, 
the  glancing  fire-light,  and  the  tethered  animals  in  the  fore 
ground.  Suddenly  an  idea  mingled  with  the  alcholic  fumes 
that  disturbed  his  brain.  It  was  apparently  of  a  jocular 
nature,  for  he  felt  impelled  to  slap  his  leg  again  and  cram 
his  fist  into  his  mouth. 

As  the  shadows  crept  slowly  up  the  mountain,  a  slight 
breeze  rocked  the  tops  of  the  pine-trees,  and  moaned  through 


148    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

their  long  and  gloomy  aisles.  The  ruined  cabin,  patched  and 
covered  with  pine  boughs,  was  set  apart  for  the  ladies.  As 
the  lovers  parted,  they  unaffectedly  exchanged  a  kiss,  so 
honest  and  sincere  that  it  might  have  been  heard  above  the 
swaying  pines.  The  frail  Duchess  and  the  malevolent 
Mother  Shipton  were  probably  too  stunned  to  remark  upon 
this  last  evidence  of  simplicity,  and  so  turned  without  a  word 
to  the  hut.  The  fire  was  replenished,  the  men  lay  down 
before  the  door,  and  in  a  few  minutes  were  asleep. 

Mr.  Oakhurst  was  a  light  sleeper.  Toward  morning  he 
awoke  benumbed  and  cold.  As  he  stirred  the  dying  fire, 
the  wind,  which  was  now  blowing  strongly,  brought  to  his 
cheek  that  which  caused  the  blood  to  leave  it — snow! 

He  started  to  his  feet  with  the  intention  of  awakening 
the  sleepers,  for  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  But  turning  to 
where  Uncle  Billy  had  been  lying,  he  found  him  gone.  A 
suspicion  leaped  to  his  brain  and  a  curse  to  his  lips.  He 
ran  to  the  spot  where  the  mules  had  been  tethered;  they 
were  no  longer  there.  The  tracks  were  already  rapidly 
disappearing  in  the  snow. 

The  momentary  excitement  brought  Mr.  Oakhurst  back 
to  the  fire  with  his  usual  calm.  He  did  not  waken  the 
sleepers.  The  Innocent  slumbered  peacefully,  with  a  smile 
on  his  good  humored,  freckled  face;  the  virgin  Piney  slept 
beside  her  frailer  sisters  as  sweetly  as  though  attended  by 
celestial  guardians,  and  Mr.  Oakhurst,  drawing  his  blanket 
over  his  shoulders,  stroked  his  mustachios  and  waited  for 
the  dawn.  It  came  slowly  in  the  whirling  mist  of  snow- 
flakes,  that  dazzled  and  confused  the  eye.  What  could  be 
seen  of  the  landscape  appeared  magically  changed.  He 
looked  over  the  valley,  and  summed  up  the  present  and  future 
in  two  words — "Snowed  in!" 

A  careful  inventory  of  the  provisions,  which,  fortunately 
for  the  party,  had  been  stored  within  the  hut,  and  so  escaped 
the  felonious  fingers  of  Uncle  Billy,  disclosed  the  fact  that 
with  care  and  prudence  they  might  last  ten  days  longer. 
"That  is,"  said  Mr.  Oakhurst,  sotto  voce  to  the  Innocent, 
"if  you're  willing  to  board  us.  •  If  you  ain't — and  perhaps 
you'd  better  not — you  can  wait  till  Uncle  Billy  gets  back 


THE  OUTCASTS  OF  POKER  FLAT          149 

with  provisions."  For  some  occult  reason,  Mr.  Oakhurst 
could  not  bring  himself  to  disclose  Uncle  Billy's  rascality, 
and  so  offered  the  hypothesis  that  he  had  wandered  from 
the  camp  and  had  accidentally  stampeded  the  animals.  He 
dropped  a  warning  to  the  Duchess  and  Mother  Shipton,  who 
of  course  knew  the  facts  of  their  associate's  defection. 
"They'll  find  out  the  truth  about  us  all,  when  they  find  out 
anything,"  he  added,  significantly,  "and  there's  no  good 
frightening  them  now." 

Tom  Simson  not  only  put  all  his  worldly  store  at  the  dis 
posal  of  Mr.  Oakhurst,  but  seemed  to  enjoy  the  prospect  of 
their  enforced  seclusion.  "We'll  have  a  good  camp  for  a 
week,  and  then  the  snow'll  melt,  and  we'll  all  go  back  to 
gether."  The  cheerful  gayety  of  the  young  man  and  Mr. 
Oakhurst's  calm  infected  the  others.  The  Innocent,  with 
the  aid  of  pine  boughs,  extemporized  a  thatch  for  the  roof 
less  cabin,  and  the  Duchess  directed  Piney  in  the  rearrange 
ment  of  the  interior  with  a  taste  and  tact  that  opened  the 
blue  eyes  of  that  provincial  maiden  to  their  fullest  extent. 

"I  reckon  now  you're  used  to  fine  things  at  Poker  Flat," 
said  Piney.  The  Duchess  turned  away  sharply  to  conceal 
something  that  reddened  her  cheek  through  its  professional 
tint,  and  Mother  Shipton  requested  Piney  not  to  "chatter." 
But  when  Mr.  Oakhurst  returned  from  a  weary  search  for  the 
trail,  he  heard  the  sound  of  happy  laughter  echoed  from  the 
rocks.  He  stopped  in  some  alarm,  and  his  thoughts  first 
naturally  reverted  to  the  whiskey,  which  he  had  prudently 
cached.  "And  yet  it  don't  somehow  sound  like  whiskey," 
said  the  gambler.  It  was  not  until  he  caught  sight  of  the 
blazing  fire  through  the  still  blinding  storm,  and  the  group 
around  it,  that  he  settled  to  the  conviction  that  it  was  "square 
fun." 

Whether  Mr.  Oakhurst  had  cached  his  cards  with  the 
whiskey  as  something  debarred  the  free  access  of  the  com 
munity,  I  cannot  say.  It  was  certain  that,  in  Mother  Ship- 
ton's  words,  he  "didn't  say  cards  once"  during  the  evening. 
Haply  the  time  was  beguiled  by  an  accordion,  produced 
somewhat  ostentatiously  by  Tom  Simson,  from  his  pack. 
Notwithstanding  some  difficulties  attending  the  manipulation 


150    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

of  this  instrument,  Piney  Woods  managed  to  pluck  several 
reluctant  melodies  from  its  keys,  to  an  accompaniment  by 
the  Innocent  on  a  pair  of  bone  castinets.  But  the  crowning 
festivity  of  the  evening  was  reached  in  a  rude  camp-meeting 
hymn,  which  the  lovers,  joining  hands,  sang  with  great 
earnestness  and  vociferation.  I  fear  that  a  certain  defiant 
tone  and  Covenanter's  swing  to  its  chorus,  rather  than  any 
devotional  quality,  caused  it  speedily  to  infect  the  others, 
who  at  last  joined  in  the  refrain: 

I'm  proud  to  live  in  the  service  of  the  Lord, 
And  I'm  bound  to  die  in  His  army. 

The  pines  rocked,  the  storm  eddied  and  whirled  above 
the  miserable  group,  and  the  flames  of  their  altar  leaped 
heavenward,  as  if  in  token  of  the  vow. 

At  midnight  the  storm  abated,  the  rolling  clouds  parted, 
and  the  stars  glittered  keenly  above  the  sleeping  camp.  Mr. 
Oakhurst,  whose  professional  habits  had  enabled  him  to  live 
on  the  smallest  possible  amount  of  sleep,  in  dividing  the 
watch  with  Tom  Simson,  somehow  managed  to  take  upon 
himself  the  greater  part  of  that  duty.  He  excused  himself 
to  the  Innocent,  by  saying  that  he  had  "often  been  a  week 
without  sleep."  "Doing  what?"  asked  Tom.  "Poker!" 
replied  Oakhurst,  sententiously,  "when  a  man  gets  a  streak 
of  luck — nigger-luck — he  don't  get  tired.  The  luck  gives 
in  first.  Luck,"  continued  the  gambler,  reflectively,  "is  a 
mighty  queer  thing.  All  you  know  about  it  for  certain  is 
that  it's  bound  to  change.  And  it's  finding  out  when  it's 
.going  to  change  that  makes  you.  We've  had  a  streak  of 
bad  luck  since -we  left  Poker  Flat — you  come  along,  and 
slap  you  get  into  it,  too.  If  you  can  hold  your  cards  right 
along  you're  all  right.  For,"  added  the  gambler,  with  cheer 
ful  irrelevance, 

"I'm  proud  to  live  in  the  service  of  the  Lord, 
And  I'm  bound  to  die  in  His  army." 

The  third  day  came,  and  the  sun,  looking  through  the 
'white-curtained  valley,  saw  the  outcasts  divide  their  slowly 
decreasing  store  of  provisions  for  the  morning  meal.  It 


THE  OUTCASTS  OF  POKER  FLAT          151 

was  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  that  mountain  climate  that 
its  rays  diffused  a  kindly  warmth  over  the  wintry  landscape, 
as  if  in  regretful  commiseration  of  the  past.  But  it  revealed 
drift  on  drift  of  snow  piled  high  around  the  hut;  a  hope 
less,  uncharted,  trackless  sea  of  white  lying  below  the  rocky 
shores  to  which  the  castaways  still  clung.  Through  the 
marvellously  clear  air,  the  smoke  of  the  pastoral  village  of 
Poker  Flat  rose  miles  away.  Mother  Shipton  saw  it,  and 
from  a  remote  pinnacle  of  her  rocky  fastness,  hurled  in  that 
direction  a  final  malediction.  It  was  her  last  vituperative 
attempt,  and  perhaps  for  that  reason  was  invested  with  a 
certain  degree  of  sublimity.  It  did  her  good,  she  privately 
informed  the  Duchess.  "Just  to  go  out  there  and  cuss,  and 
see."  She  then  set  herself  to  the  task  of  amusing  "the  child," 
as  she  and  the  Duchess  were  pleased  to  call  Piney.  Piney 
was  no  chicken,  but  it  was  a  soothing  and  ingenious  theory 
of  the  pair  thus  to  account  for  the  fact  that  she  didn't  swear 
and  wasn't  improper. 

When  night  crept  up  again  through  the  gorges,  the  reedy 
notes  of  the  accordion  rose  and  fell  in  fitful  spasms  ancl 
long-drawn  gasps  by  the  flickering  camp-fire.  But  music 
failed  to  fill  entirely  the  aching  void  left  by  insufficient  food, 
and  a  new  diversion  was  proposed  by  Piney — story-telling. 
Neither  Mr.  Oakhurst  nor  his  female  companions  caring  to 
relate  their  personal  experiences,  this  plan  would  have 
failed,  too,  but  for  The  Innocent.  Some  months  before  he 
had  chanced  upon  a  stray  copy  of  Mr.  Pope's  ingenious 
translation  of  the  Iliad.  He  now  proposed  to  narrate  the 
principal  incidents  of  that  poem — having  thoroughly 
mastered  the  argument  and  fairly  forgotten  the  words — in  the 
current  vernacular  of  Sandy  Bar.  And  so  for  the  rest  of  that 
night  the  Homeric  demigods  again  walked  the  earth.  Trojan 
bully  and  wily  Greek  wrestled  in  the  winds,  and  the  great 
pines  in  the  canon  seemed  to  bow  to  the  wrath  of  the  son  of 
Peleus.  Mr.  Oakhurst  listened  with  quiet  satisfaction.  Most 
especially  was  he  interested  in  the  fate  of  "Ash-heels,"  as 
the  Innocent  persisted  in  denominating  the  "swift-footed 
Achilles." 

So  with  small  food  and  much  of  Homer  and  the  accor- 


152    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

dion,  a  week  passed  over  the  heads  of  the  outcasts.  The 
sun  again  forsook  them,  and  again  from  leaden  skies  the 
snow-flakes  were  sifted  over  the  land.  Day  by  day  closer 
around  them  drew  the  snowy  circle,  until  at  last  they  looked 
from  their  prison  over  drifted  walls  of  dazzling  white,  that 
towered  twenty  feet  above  their  heads.  It  became  more  and 
more  difficult  to  replenish  their  fires,  even  from  the  fallen 
trees  beside  them,  now  half-hidden  in  the  drifts.  And  yet 
no  one  complained.  The  lovers  turned  from  the  dreary  pros 
pect  and  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  were  happy.  Mr. 
Oakhurst  settled  himself  coolly  to  the  losing  game  before 
him.  The  Duchess,  more  cheerful  than  she  had  been,  as 
sumed  the  care  of  Piney.  Only  Mother  Shipton — once  the 
strongest  of  the  party — seemed  to  sicken  and  fade.  At  mid 
night  on  the  tenth  day  she  called  Oakhurst  to  her  side.  "I'm 
going,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  of  querulous  weakness,  "but  don't* 
say  anything  about  it.  Don't  waken  the  kids.  Take  the 
bundle  from  under  my  head  and  open  it."  Mr.  Oakhurst 
did  so.  It  contained  Mother  Shipton's  rations  for  the  last 
week,  untouched.  "Give  'em  to  the  child,"  she  said,  pointing 
to  the  sleeping  Piney.  "You've  starved  yourself,"  said  the 
gambler.  "That's  what  they  call  it,"  said  the  woman, 
querulously,  as  she  lay  down  again,  and,  turning  her  face 
to  the  wall,  passed  quietly  away. 

The  accordion  and  the  bones  were  put  aside  that  day, 
and  Homer  was  forgotten.  When  the  body  of  Mother  Ship- 
ton  had  been  committed  to  the  snow,  Mr.  Oakhurst  took  The 
Innocent  aside,  and  showed  him  a  pair  of  snow-shoes,  which 
he  had  fashioned  from  the  old  pack-saddle.  "There's  one 
chance  in  a  hundred  to  save  her  yet,"  he  said,  pointing  to 
Piney;  "but  it's  there,"  he  added,  pointing  toward  Poker 
Flat.  "If  you  can  reach  there  in  two  days  she's  safe." 
"And  you?"  asked  Tom  Simson.  "I'll  stay  here,"  was  the 
curt  reply. 

The  lovers  parted  with  a  long  embrace.  "You  are  not 
going,  too?"  said  the  Duchess,  as  she  saw  Mr.  Oakhurst  ap 
parently  waiting  to  accompany  him.  "As  far  as  the  canon," 
he  replied.  He  turned  suddenly,  and  kissed  the1  Duchess, 


THE  OUTCASTS  OF  POKER  FLAT    153 

leaving  her  pallid  face  aflame,  and  her  trembling  limbs  rigid 
with  amazement. 

Night  came,  but  not  Mr.  Oakhurst.  It  brought  the  storm 
again  and  the  whirling  snow.  Then  the  Duchess,  feeding  the 
fire,  found  that  some  one  had  quietly  piled  beside  the  hut 
enough  fuel  to  last  a  few  days  longer.  The  tears  rose  to 
her  eyes,  but  she  hid  them  from  Piney. 

The  women  slept  but  little.  In  the  morning,  looking  into 
each  other's  faces,  they  read  their  fate.  Neither  spoke;  but 
Piney,  accepting  the  position  of  the  stronger,  drew  near  and 
placed  her  arm  around  the  Duchess's  waist.  They  kept  this 
attitude  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  That  night  the  storm 
reached  its  greatest  fury,  and,  rending  asunder  the  protect 
ing  pines,  invaded  the  very  hut. 

Toward  morning  they  found  themselves  unable  to  feed  the 
fire,  which  gradually  died  away.  As  the  embers  slowly 
blackened,  the  Duchess  crept  closer  to  Piney,  and  broke  the 
silence  of  many  hours:  "Piney,  can  you  pray?"  "No,  dear," 
said  Piney,  simply.  The  Duchess,  without  knowing  exactly 
why,  felt  relieved,  and,  putting  her  head  upon  Piney's 
shoulder,  spoke  no  more.  And  so  reclining,  the  younger  and 
purer  pillowing  the  head  of  her  soiled  sister  upon  her  virgin 
breast,  they  fell  asleep. 

The  wind  lulled  as  if  it  feared  to  waken  them.  Feathery 
drifts  of  snow,  shaken  from  the  long  pine  boughs,  flew  like 
white-winged  birds,  and  settled  about  them  as  they  slept. 
The  moon  through  the  rifted  clouds  looked  down  upon  what 
had  been  the  camp.  But  all  human  stain,  all  trace  of  earthly 
travail,  was  hidden  beneath  the  spotless  mantle  mercifully 
flung  from  above. 

They  slept  all  that  day  and  the  next,  nor  did  they  waken 
when  voices  and  footsteps  broke  the  silence  of  the  camp. 
And  when  pitying  fingers  brushed  the  snow  from  their  wan 
faces,  you  could  scarcely  have  told  from  the  equal  peace  that 
dwelt  upon  them,  which  was  she  that  had  sinned.  Even 
the  Law  of  Poker  Flat  recognized  this,  and  turned  away, 
leaving  them  still  locked  in  each  other's  arms. 

But  at  the  head  of  the  gulch,  on  one  of  the  largest  pine 
trees,  they  found  the  deuce  of  clubs  pinned  to  the  bark  with 


154    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

a  bowie  knife.  It  bore  the  following,  written  in  pencil,  in  a 
firm  hand: 

t 

BENEATH  THIS  TREE 

LIES  THE  BODY 

OF 

JOHN  OAKHURST, 

WHO  STRUCK   A  STREAK  OF  BAD  LUCK 
ON  THE  23D  OF  NOVEMBER,    1850, 

AND 

HANDED  IN  HIS  CHECKS 
ON  THE  7TH  OF  DECEMBER,  1850. 

4 

And  pulseless  and  cold,  with  a  Derringer  by  his  side  and 
a  bullet  in  his  heart,  though  still  calm  as  in  life,  beneath  the 
snow  lay  he  who  was  at  once  the  strongest  and  yet  the 
weakest  of  the  outcasts  of  Poker  Flat. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  WRECK* 

BY  FRANK  STOCKTON 

WELL,  sir/'  said  old  Silas,  as  he  gave  a  preliminary 
puff  to  the  pipe  he  had  just  lighted,  and  so  satis 
fied  himself  that  the  draught  was  all  right,  "the 
wind's  a-comin',  an'  so's  Christmas.  But  it's  no  use  bein' 
in  a  hurry  fur  either  of  'em,  fur  sometimes  they  come  afore 
you  want  'em,  anyway." 

Silas  was  sitting  in  the  stern  of  a  small  sailing-boat  which 
he  owned,  and  in  which  he  sometimes  took  the  Sandport 
visitors  out  for  a  sail;  and  at  other  times  applied  to  its  more 
legitimate,  but  less  profitable  use,  that  of  fishing.  That 
afternoon  he  had  taken  young  Mr.  Nugent  for  a  brief  ex 
cursion  on  that  portion  of  the  Atlantic  Ocean  which  sends 
its  breakers  up  on  the  beach  of  Sandport.  But  he  had  found 
it  difficult,  nay,  impossible  just  now,  to  bring  him  back,  for 
the  wind  had  gradually  died  away  until  there  was  not  a 
breath  of  it  left.  Mr.  Nugent,  to  whom  nautical  experiences 
were  as  new  as  the  very  nautical  suit  of  blue  flannel  which 
he  wore,  rather  liked  the  calm;  it  was  such  a  relief  to  the 
monotony  of  rolling  waves.  He  took  out  a  cigar  and  lighted 
it,  and  then  he  remarked: 

"I  can  easily  imagine  how  a  wind  might  come  before  you 
sailors  might  want  it,  but  I  don't  see  how  Christmas  could 
come  too  soon." 

"It  come  wunst  on  me  when  things  couldn't  'a'  looked  mor? 
onready  fur  it,"  said  Silas. 

"How  was  that?"  asked  Mr.  Nugent,  settling  himself  a 
little  more  comfortably  on  the  hard  thwart.  "If  it's  a  story, 
let's  have  it.  This  is  a  good  time  to  spin  a  yarn." 

*  From  "The  Christmas  Wreck  and  Other  Stories,"  copyright,  1886, 
by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  By  permission  of  the  publishers. 

155 


156    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"Very  well,"  said  old  Silas.    "I'll  spin  her." 

The  bare-legged  boy,  whose  duty  it  was  to  stay  forward 
and  mind  the  jib,  came  aft  as  soon  as  he  smelt  a  story,  and 
took  a  nautical  position  which  was  duly  studied  by  Mr. 
Nugent,  on  a  bag  of  ballast  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

"It's  nigh  on  to  fifteen  year  ago,"  said  Silas,  "that  I  was 
on  the  bark,  Mary  Auguster,  bound  for  Sydney,  New 
South  Wales,  with  a  cargo  of  canned  goods.  We  was  some 
where  about  longitood  a,  hundred  an'  seventy,  latitood  nothin'. 
an'  it  was  the  twenty-second  o'  December,  when  we  was 
ketched  by  a  reg'lar  typhoon  which  blew  straight  along,  end 
on,  fur  a  day  an'  a  half.  It  blew  away  the  storm  sails;  it 
blew  away  every  yard,  spar,  shroud,  an'  every  strand  o* 
riggin',  an'  snapped  the  masts  off,  close  to  the  deck;  it  blew 
away  all  the  boats;  it  blew  away  the  cook's  caboose,  an' 
everything  else  on  deck;  it  blew  off  the  hatches,  an'  sent  'em 
spinnin'  in  the  air,  about  a  mile  to  leeward;  an'  afore  it  got 
through,  it  washed  away  the  cap'n  an'  all  the  crew  'cept  me 
an'  two  others.  These  was  Tom  Simmons,  the  second  mate, 
an'  Andy  Boyle,  a  chap  from  the  Andirondack  Mountins, 
who'd  never  been  to  sea  afore.  As  he  was  a  landsman  he 
ought,  by  rights,  to  'a'  been  swep'  off  by  the  wind  an'  water, 
consid'rin'  that  the  cap'n  an'  sixteen  good  seamen  had  gone 
a'ready.  But  he  had  hands  eleven  inches  long,  an'  that  give 
him  a  grip  which  no  typhoon  could  git  the  better  of.  Andy 
had  let  out  that  his  father  was  a  miller  up  there  in  York 
State,  an'  a  story  had  got  round  among  the  crew  that  his 
gran'father  an'  great  gran'father  was  millers  too;  an'  the 
way  the  fam'ly  got  such  big  hands  come  from  their  habit  of 
scoopin'  up  a  extry  quart  or  two  of  meal  or  flour  for  them 
selves  when  they  was  levelin'  off  their  customers'  measures. 
He  was  a  good-natered  feller,  though,  an'  never  got  riled 
when  I'd  tell  him  to  clap  his  flour-scoops  onter  a  halyard. 

"We  was  all  soaked,  an'  washed,  an'  beat,  an'  battered. 
We  held  on  some  way  or  other  till  the  wind  blowed  itself  out, 
an'  then  we  got  on  our  legs  an'  began  to  look  about  us  to 
see  how  things  stood.  The  sea  had  washed  into  the  open 
hatches  till  the  vessel  was  more'n  half  full  of  water,  an' 
that  had  sunk  her  so  deep  that  she  must  'a  looked  like  a 


THE  CHRISTMAS  WRECK  157 

canal  boat  loaded  with  gravel.  We  hadn't  had  a  thing  to 
eat  or  drink  durin'  that  whole  blow,  an'  we  was  pretty 
ravenous.  We  found  a  keg  of  water  which  was  all  right,  and 
a  box  of  biscuit,  which  was  what  you  might  call  soft  tack, 
for  they  was  soaked  through  and  through  with  sea-water. 
We  eat  a  let  of  them  so,  fur  we  couldn't  wait,  an'  the  rest 
we  spread  on  the  deck  to  dry,  fur  the  sun  was  now  shinin' 
hot  enough  to  bake  bread.  We  couldn't  go  below  much,  fur 
there  was  a  pretty  good  swell  on  the  sea,  and  things  was 
floatin'  about  so's  to  make  it  dangerous.  But  we  fished  out 
a  piece  of  canvas,  which  we  rigged  up  agin  the  stump  of  the 
mainmast  so  that  we  could  have  somethin'  that  we  could  sit 
down  an'  grumble  under.  What  struck  us  all  the  hardest 
was  that  the  bark  was  loaded  with  a  whole  cargo  of  jolly 
things  to  eat,  which  was  just  as  good  as  ever  they  was,  fur 
the  water  couldn't  git  through  the  tin  cans  in  which  they 
was  all  put  up;  an'  here  we  was  with  nothin'  to  live  on  but 
them  salted  biscuit.  There  was  no  way  of  gittin'  at  any  of 
the  ship's  stores,  or  any  of  the  fancy  prog,  fur  everythin' 
was  stowed  away  tight  under  six  or  seven  feet  of  water,  an* 
pretty  nigh  all  the  room  that  was  left  between  decks  was 
filled  up  with  extry  spars,  lumber  boxes,  an'  other  floatin' 
stuff.  All  was  shiftin',  an'  bumpin',  an'  bangin'  every  time 
the  vessel  rolled. 

"As  I  said  afore,  Tom  was  second  mate,  an'  I  was  bo's'n. 
Says  I  to  Tom,  'the  thing  we've  got  to  do  is  to  put  up  some 
kind  of  a  spar  with  a  rag  on  it  for  a  distress  flag,  so  that 
we'll  lose  no  time  bein'  took  off.'  'There's  no  use  a-slavin' 
at  anythin'  like  that,'  says  Tom,  'fur  we've  been  blowed  off 
the  track  of  traders,  an'  the  more  we  work  the  hungrier  we'll 
git,  an'  the  sooner  will  them  biscuit  be  gone/ 

"Now  when  I  heerd  Tom  say  this  I  sot  still,  and  began 
to  consider.  Being  second  mate,  Tom  was,  by  rights,  in 
command  of  this  craft ;  but  it  was  easy  enough  to  see  that  if 
he  commanded  there'd  never  be  nothin'  for  Andy  an'  me  to 
do.  All  the  grit  he  had  in  him  he'd  used  up  in  holdin'  on 
durin'  that  typhoon.  What  he  wanted  to  do  now  was  to  make 
himself  comfortable  till  the  time  come  for  him  to  go  to  Davy 
Jones's  Locker;  an'  thinkin',  most  likely,  that  Davy  couldn't 


158   THE  GREAT  MODERN.  AMERICAN,  STORIES 

make  it  any  hotter  fur  him  than  it  was  on  that  deck,  still 
in  latitood  nothin'  at  all,  fur  we'd  been  blowed  along  the  line 
pretty  nigh  due  west.  So  I  calls  to  Andy,  who  was  busy 
turnin'  over  the  biscuits  on  the  deck.  'Andy/  says  I,  when  he 
had  got  under  the  canvas,  'we's  goin'  to  have  a  'lection  iur 
skipper.  Tom  here  is  about  played  out.  He's  one  candydate, 
an*  I'm  another.  Now,  who  do  you  vote  fur?  An',  mind 
yer  eye,  youngster,  that  you  don't  make  no  mistake.'  'I  vote 
fur  you,'  says  Andy.  'Carried  unanermous!'  says  I.  'An' 
I  want  you  to  take  notice  that  I'm  cap'n  of  what's  left  of  the 
Mary  Auguster,  an'  you  two  has  got  to  keep  your  minds 
on  that,  an'  obey  orders.'  If  Davy  Jones  was  to  do  all  that 
Tom  Simmons  said  when  he  heard  this,  the  old  chap 
would  be  kept  busier  than  he  ever  was  yit.  But  I  let  him  growl 
his  growl  out,  knowin'  he'd  come  round  all  right,  fur  there 
wasn't  no  help  fur  it,  consid'rin'  Andy  an'  me  was  two  to  his 
one.  Pretty  soon  we  all  went  to  work,  an'  got  up  a  spar 
from  below  which  we  rigged  to  the  stump  of  the  foremast, 
with  Andy's  shirt  atop  of  it. 

"Them  sea-soaked,  sun-dried  biscuit  was  pretty  mean 
prog,  as  you  might  think,  but  we  eat  so  many  of  'em  that 
afternoon  an'  'cordingly  drank  so  much  water  that  I  was 
obliged  to  put  us  all  on  short  rations  the  next  day.  'This 
is  the  day  before  Christmas,'  says  Andy  Boyle,  'an'  to-night 
will  be  Christmas  Eve,  an'  it's  pretty  tough  fur  us  to  be 
sittin'  here  with  not  even  so  much  hard  tack  as  we  want,  an' 
all  the  time  thinkin'  that  the  hold  of  this  ship  is  packed  full 
of  the  gayest  kind  of  good  things  to  eat.'  'Shut  up  about 
Christmas!'  says  Tom  Simmons.  'Them  two  youngsters  of 
mine,  up  in  Bangor,  is  havin'  their  toes  and  noses  pretty 
nigh  froze,  I  'spect,  but  they'll  hang  up  their  stockin's  all  the 
same  to-night,  never  thinkin'  that  their  dad's  bein'  cooked 
alive  on  an  empty  stomach.'  'Of  course  they  wouldn't  hang 
'em  up,'  says  I,  'if  they  knowed  what  a  fix  you  was  in,  but 
they  don't  know  it,  an'  what's  the  use  of  grumblin'  at  'em 
for  bein'  a  little  jolly?'  'Well/  says  Andy,  'they  couldn't  be 
more  jollier  than  I'd  be  if  I  could  git  at  some  of  them  fancy 
fixin's  down  in  the  hold.  I  worked  well  on  to  a  week  at 
'Frisco  puttin'  in  them  boxes,  an'  the  names  of  the  things  was 


THE  CHRISTMAS  WRECK  159 

on  the  outside  of  most  of  'em,  an'  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  mates, 
it  made  my  mouth  water,  even  then,  to  read  'em,  an'  I  wasn't 
hungry  nuther,  havin'  plenty  to  eat  three  times  a  day.  There 
was  roast  beef,  an'  roast  mutton,  an'  duck,  an'  chicken,  an' 
soup,  an'  peas,  an'  beans,  an'  termaters,  an'  plum-puddin', 
an'  mince-pie — '  'Shut  up  with  your  mince-pie  1'  sung  out 
Tom  Simmons.  'Isn't  it  enough  to  have  to  gnaw  on  these 
salt  chips,  without  hearin'  about  mince-pie?'  'An'  more'n 
that,'  says  Andy,  'there  was  canned  peaches,  an'  pears,  an' 
plums,  an'  cherries.' 

"Now  these  things  did  sound  so  cool  an'  good  to  me  on  that 
broilin'  deck,  that  I  couldn't  stand  it,  an'  I  leans  over  to 
Andy,  an'  I  says:  'Now  look-a  here,  if  you  don't  shut  up 
talkin'  about  them  things  what's  stowed  below,  an'  what  we 
can't  git  at,  nohow,  overboard  you  go!'  'That  would  make 
you  short-handed.'  says  Andy,  with  a  grin.  'Which  is 
more'n  you  could  say,'  says  I,  'if  you'd  chuck  Tom  an'  me 
over' — alludin'  to  his  eleven-inch  grip.  Andy  didn't  say 
no  more  then,  but  after  a  while  he  comes  to  me  as  I  was 
lookin'  round  to  see  if  anything  was  in  sight,  an'  says  he, 
'I  s'pose  you  ain't  got  nuthin'  to  say  again  my  divin'  into  the 
hold  just  aft  of  the  foremast,  where  there  seems  to  be  a  bit 
of  pretty  clear  water,  an'  see  if  I  can't  git  up  something?' 
'You  kin  do  it,  if  you  like,'  says  I,  'but  it's  at  your  own  risk. 
You  can't  take  out  no  insurance  at  this  office.'  'All  right 
then,'  says  Andy,  'an'  if  I  git  stove  in  by  floatin'  boxes,  you 
an'  Tom'll  have  to  eat  the  rest  of  them  salt  crackers.'  'Now, 
boy,'  says  I — an'  he  wasn't  much  more,  bein'  only  nineteen 
year  old — 'you'd  better  keep  out  o'  that  hold.  You'll  just  git 
yourself  smashed.  An'  as  to  movin'  any  of  them  there  heavy 
boxes,  which  must  be  swelled  up  as  tight  as  if  they  was  part 
of  the  ship,  you  might  as  well  try  to  pull  out  one  of  the 
Mary  Auguster's  ribs.'  'I'll  try  it,'  says  Andy,  'fur  to-mor- 
rer  is  Christmas,  an'  if  I  kin  help  it  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  floatin' 
atop  of  a  Christmas  dinner  without  eatin'  any  on  it.'  I 
let  him  go,  fur  he  was  a  good  swimmer  and  diver,  an'  I  did 
hope  he  might  root  out  somethin'  or  other,  fur  Christmas  is 
about  the  worst  day  in  the  year  fur  men  to  be  starvin'  on, 
and  that's  what  we  was  a-comin'  to. 


160    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"Well,  fur  about  two  hours  Andy  swum,  an*  dove,  an' 
come  up  blubberin',  an'  dodged  all  sorts  of  floatin'  an' 
pitchin'  stuff,  fur  the  swell  was  still  on;  but  he  couldn't  even 
be  so  much  as  sartain  that  he'd  found  the  canned  vittles. 
To  dive  down  through  hatchways,  an'  among  broken  bulk 
heads,  to  hunt  fur  any  partiklar  kind  o'  boxes  under  seven 
feet  of  sea-water,  ain't  no  easy  job ;  an'  though  Andy  says  he 
got  hold  of  the  end  of  a  box  that  felt  to  him  like  the  big 
'uns  he'd  noticed  as  havin'  the  meat  pies  in,  he  couldn't  move 
it  no  more'n  if  it  had  been  the  stump  of  the  foremast.  If 
we  could  have  pumped  the  water  out  of  the  hold  we  could 
have  got  at  any  part  of  the  cargo  we  wanted,  but  as  it  was, 
we  couldn't  even  reach  the  ship's  stores,  which,  of  course, 
must  have  been  mostly  spiled  anyway;  whereas  the  canned 
vittles  was  just  as  good  as  new.  The  pumps  was  all  smashed, 
or  stopped  up,  for  we  tried  'em,  but  if  they  hadn't  a-been  we 
three  couldn't  never  have  pumped  out  that  ship  on  three 
biscuit  a  day,  and  only  about  two  days'  rations  at  that. 

"So  Andy  he  come  up,  so  fagged  out  that  it  was  as  much 
as  he  could  do  to  get  his  clothes  on,  though  they  wasn't  much, 
an'  then  he  stretched  himself  out  under  the  canvas  an'  went 
to  sleep,  an'  it  wasn't  long  afore  he  was  talking  about  roast 
turkey  an'  cranberry  sass,  an'  punkin  pie,  an'  sech  stuff, 
most  of  which  we  knowed  was  under  our  feet  that  present ' 
minute.  Tom  Simmons  he  just  b'iled  over,  an'  sung  out: 
'Roll  him  out  in  the  sun  and  let  him  cook !  I  can't  stand  no 
more  of  this!'  But  I  wasn't  goin'  to  have  Andy  treated  no 
sech  way  as  that,  fur  if  it  hadn't  been  fur  Tom  Simmons' 
wife  an'  young  uns,  Andy'd  been  worth  two  of  him  to  any 
body  who  was  consid'rin'  savin'  life.  But  I  give  the  boy  a 
good  punch  in  the  ribs  to  stop  his  dreamin',  fur  I  was  as 
hungry  as  Tom  was,  and  couldn't  stand  no  nonsense  about 
Christmas  dinners. 

"It  was  a  little  arter  noon  when  Andy  woke  up,  an'  he 
went  outside  to  stretch  himself.  In  about  a  minute  he  give 
a  yell  that  made  Tom  and  me  jump.  'A  sail  I'  he  hollered,  'a 
sail!'  An'  you  may  bet  your  life,  young  man,  that  'twasn't 
more'n  half  a  second  before  us  two  had  scuffled  out  from 
under  that  canvas,  an'  was  standin'  by  Andy.  'There  she 


THE  CHRISTMAS  WRECK  161 

is!'  he  shouted,  'not  a  mile  to  win'ard.'  I  give  one  look, 
an' then  I  sings  out:  'Tain 't  a  sail!  It's  a  flag  of  distress ! 
Can't  you  see,  you  land-lubber,  that  that's  the  Stars  and 
Stripes  upside  down?'  'Why,  s6  it  is,'  said  Andy,  with  a 
couple  of  reefs  in  the  joyfulness  of  his  voice.  An'  Tom,  he 
began  to  growl  as  if  somebody  had  cheated  him  out  of  half 
a  year's  wages. 

"The  flag  that  we  saw  was  on  the  hull  of  a  steamer  that 
had  been  driftin'  down  on  us  while  we  was  sittin'  under  our 
canvas.  It  was  plain  to  see  she'd  been  caught  in  the  typhoon 
too,  fur  there  wasn't  a  mast  or  a  smoke  stack  on  her;  but  her 
hull  was  high  enough  out  of  the  water  to  catch  what  wind 
there  was,  while  we  was  so  low-sunk  that  we  didn't  make  no 
way  at  all.  There  was  people  aboard,  and  they  saw  us,  an' 
waved  their  hats  an.'  arms,  an'  Andy  an'  me  waved  ours,  but 
all  we  could  do  was  to  wait  till  they  drifted  nearer,  fur  we 
hadn't  no  boats  to  go  to  'em  if  we'd  'a'  wanted  to. 

"  'I'd  like  to  know  what  good  that  old  hulk  is  to  us,'  said 
Tom  Simmons.  'She  can't  take  us  off.'  It  did  look  to  me 
somethin'  like  the  blind  leadin'  the  blind;  but  Andy  sings 
out:  'We'd  be  better  off  aboard  of  her,  fur  she  ain't  water 
logged,  an,'  more'n  that,  I  don't  s'pose  her  stores  are  all 
soaked  up  in  salt  water.'  There  was  some  sense  in  that,  and 
when  the  steamer  had  got  to  within  half  a  mile  of  us,  we  was 
glad  to  see  a  boat  put  out  from  her  with  three  men  in  it. 
It  was  a  queer  boat,  very  low,  an'  flat,  an'  not  like  any  ship's 
boat  I  ever  see.  But  the  two  fellers  at  the  oars  pulled  stiddy, 
an'  pretty  soon  the  boat  was  'longside  of  us,  an'  the  three 
men  on  our  deck.  One  of  'em  was  the  first  mate  of  the  other 
wreck,  an'  when  he  found  out  what  was  the  matter  with  us, 
he  spun  his  yarn,  which  was  a  longer  one  than  ours.  His 
vessel  was  the  Water  Crescent,  nine  hundred  tons,  from 
'Frisco  to  Melbourne,  and  they  had  sailed  about  six  weeks 
afore  we  did.  They  was  about  two  weeks  out  when  some  of 
their  machinery  broke  down,  an'  when  they  got  it  patched 
up  it  broke  agin'  worse  than  afore,  so  that  they  couldn't  do 
nothin'  with  it.  They  kep'  along  under  sail  for  about  a 
month,  makin?  mighty  poor  headway  till  the  typhoon  struck 
'em,  an'  that  cleaned  their  decks  off  about  as  slick  as  it  did 


162    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

ours,  but  their  hatches  wasn't  blowed  off,  an'  they  didn't  ship 
no  water  wuth  mentioning  an'  the  crew  havin'  kep'  below, 
none  on  'em  was  lost.  But  now  they  was  clean  out  of  pro 
visions  and  water,  havin'  been  short  when  the  break-down 
happened,  fur  they  had  sold  all  the  stores  they  could  spare 
to  a  French  brig  in  distress  that  they  overhauled  when  about 
a  week  out.  When  they  sighted  us  they  felt  pretty  sure  they'd 
git  some  provisions  out  of  us.  But  when  I  told  the  mate  what 
a  fix  we  was  in  his  jaw  dropped  till  his  face  was  as  long 
as  one  of  Andy's  hands.  Howsomdever  he  said  he'd  send 
the  boat  back  fur  as  many  men  as  it  could  bring  over,  and 
see  if  they  couldn't  get  up  some  of  our  stores.  Even  if  they 
was  soaked  with  salt  water,  they'd  be  better  than  nothin'. 
Part  of  the  cargo  of  the  Water  Crescent  was  tools  an* 
things  fur  some  railway  contractors  out  in  Australier,  an'  the 
mate  told  the  men  to  bring  over  some  of  them  irons  that  might 
be  used  to  fish  out  the  stores.  All  their  ship's  boats  had  been 
blowed  away,  an'  the  one  they  had  was  a  kind  of  shore  boat 
for  fresh  water,  that  had  been  shipped  as  part  of  the  cargo, 
an*  stowed  below.  It  couldn't  stand  no  kind  of  a  sea,  but 
there  wasn't  nothin'  but  a  swell  on;  an'  when  it  came  back 
it  had  the  cap'n  in  it,  an'  five  men,  besides  a  lot  of  chains  an* 
tools. 

"Them  fellers  an'  us  worked  pretty  nigh  the  rest  of  the 
day,  an'  we  got  out  a  couple  of  bar 'Is  of  water,  which  was 
all  right,  havin'  been  tight  bunged;  an'  a  lot  of  sea  biscuit, 
all  soaked  an'  sloppy,  but  we  only  got  a  half  bar'l  of  meat, 
though  three  or  four  of  the  men  stripped  an'  dove  for  more'n 
an  hour.  We  cut  up  some  of  the  meat,  an'  eat  it  raw,  an' 
the  cap'n  sent  some  over  to  the  other  wreck,  which  had  drifted 
past  us  to  leeward,  an'  would  have  gone  clean  away  from  us 
if  the  cap'n  hadn't  had  a  line  got  out  an'  made  us  fast  to  it 
while  we  was  workin'  at  the  stores. 

"That  night  the  cap'n  took  us  three,  as  well  as  the  pro 
visions  we'd  got  out,  on  board  his  hull,  where  the  'commoda- 
tions  was  consid'able  better  than  they  was  on  the  half-sunk 
'Mary  Auguster.'  An'  afore  we  turned  in  he  took  me  aft,  an1 
had  a  talk  with  me  as  commandin'  off'cer  of  my  vessel.  'That 
wreck  o'  yourn,'  says  he,  'has  got  a  vallyble  cargo  in  it,  which 


THE  CHRISTMAS  WRECK  163 

isn't  spiled  by  bein'  under  water.  Now,  if  you  could  get 
that  cargo  into  port  it  would  put  a  lot  of  money  in  your 
pocket,  fur  the  owners  couldn't  git  out  of  payin'  you  fur 
takin'  charge  of  it,  an'  havin'  it  brung  in.  Now  I'll  tell  you 
what  I'll  do.  I'll  lie  by  you,  an'  I've  got  carpenters  aboard 
that'll  put  your  pumps  in  order,  an'  I'll  set  my  men  to  work 
to  pump  out  your  vessel.  An'  then,  when  she's  afloat  all 
right,  I'll  go  to  work  agin  at  my  vessel,  which  I  didn't  s'pose 
there  was  any  use  o'  doin';  but  whilst  I  was  huntin'  round 
amongst  our  cargo  to-day  I  found  that  some  of  the  ma 
chinery  we  carried  might  be  worked  up  so's  to  take  the  place 
of  what  is  broke  in  our  engin'.  We've  got  a  forge  aboard  an' 
I  believe  we  can  make  these  pieces  of  machinery  fit,  an'  git 
goin'  agin.  Then  I'll  tow  you  into  Sydney,  an'  we'll  divide 
the  salvage  money.  I  won't  git  nothin'  for  savin'  my  vessel, 
coz  that's  my  bizness;  but  you  wasn't  cap'n  o'  yourn,  an* 
took  charge  of  her  a  purpose  to  save  her,  which  is  another 
thing.' 

"I  wasn't  at  all  sure  that  I  didn't  take  charge  of  the 
'Mary  Auguster*  to  save  myself  an'  not  the  vessel,  but  I  didn't 
mention  that,  an*  asked  the  cap'n  how  he  expected  to  live  all 
this  time.  'Oh,  we  kin  git  at  your  stores  easy  enough,'  says 
he,  'when  the  water's  pumped  out.'  'They'll  be  mostly  spiled,' 
says  I.  'That  don't  matter,'  says  he,  'men'll  eat  anythin', 
when  they  can't  git  nothin'  else.'  An'  with  that  he  left  me 
to  think  it  over. 

"I  must  say,  young  man,  an'  you  kin  b'lieve  me  if  you 
know  anythin'  about  sech  things,  that  the  idee  of  a  pile  of 
money  was  mighty  temptin'  to  a  feller  like  me,  who  had  a  girl 
at  home  ready  to  marry  him,  and  who  would  like  nothin' 
better'n  to  have  a  little  house  of  his  own,  an'  a  little  vessel  of 
his  own,  an'  give  up  the  other  side  of  the  world  altogether. 
But  while  I  was  goin'  over  all  this  in  my  mind,  an'  won- 
derin'  if  the  cap'n  ever  could  git  us  into  port,  along  comes 
Andy  Boyle,  and  sits  down  beside  me.  'It  drives  me  pretty 
nigh  crazy,'  says  he,  'to  think  that  to-morrer's  Christmas,  an' 
we've  got  to  feed  on  that  sloppy  stuff  we  fished  out  of  our 
stores,  an'  not  much  of  it  nuther,  while  there's  all  that  roast 
turkey,  an'  plum-puddin',  an'  mince-pie,  a-floatin'  out  there 


164    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

just  before  our  eyes,  an'  we  can't  have  none  of  it.'  'You 
hadn't  oughter  think  so  much  about  eatin',  AndyP  says  I, 
'but  if  I  was  talkin'  about  them  things  I  wouldn't  leave  out 
canned  peaches.  By  George!  Of  a  hot  Christmas  like  this 
is  goin'  to  be,  I'd  be  the  j oiliest  Jack  on  the  ocean  if  I  could 
git  at  that  canned  fruit.'  'Well,  there's  a  way,'  says  Andy, 
'that  we  might  git  some  of  'em.  A  part  of  the  cargo  of  this 
ship  is  stuff  for  blastin'  rocks;  catridges,  'lectric  bat'ries,  an' 
that  sort  of  thing;  an'  there's  a  man  aboard  who's  goin'  out  to 
take  charge  of  'em.  I've  been  talkin'  to  this  bat'ry  man,  an* 
I've  made  up  my  mind  it'll  be  easy  enough  to  lower  a  little 
catridge  down  among  our  cargo,  an'  blow  out  a  part  of  it/ 
'What  ud  be  the  good  of  it,'  says  I,  'blowed  into  chips?' 
'It  might  smash  some,'  he  said,  'but  others  would  be  only 
loosened,  an'  they'd  float  up  to  the  top,  where  we  could  get 
'em,  'specially  them  as  was  packed  with  pies,  which  must 
be  pretty  light.'  'Git  out,  Andy,'  says  I,  'with  all  that  stuff!' 
An'  he  got  out. 

"But  the  idees  he'd  put  into  my  head  didn't  git  out,  an'  as 
I  laid  on  my  back  on  the  deck,  lookin'  up  at  the  stars,  they 
sometimes  seemed  to  put  themselves  into  the  shape  of  little 
houses,  with  a  little  woman  cookin'  at  the  kitchen  fire,  an'  a 
little  schooner  layin'  at  anchor  just  off  shore;  an'  then  agin 
they'd  hump  themselves  up  till  they  looked  like  a  lot  of  new 
tin  cans  with  their  tops  off,  an'  all  kinds  of  good  things  to  eat 
inside,  specially  canned  peaches — the  big  white  kind — soft 
an'  cool,  each  one  split  in  half,  with  a  holler  in  the  middle 
filled  with  juice.  By  George,  sir,  the  very  thought  of  a  tin 
can  like  that  made  me  beat  my  heels  agin  the  deck.  I'd  been 
mighty  hungry,  an'  had  eat  a  lot  of  salt  pork,  wet  an'  raw, 
an'  now  the  very  idee  of  it,  even  cooked,  turned  my  stomach. 
I  looked  up  to  the  stars  agin,  an'  the  little  house  an'  the  little 
schooner  was  clean  gone,  an'  the  whole  sky  was  filled  with 
nothin'  but  bright  new  tin  cans. 

"In  the  mornin',  Andy,  he  come  to  me  agin.  'Have  you 
made  up  your  mind,'  says  he,  'about  gittin'  some  of  them 
good  things  for  Christmas  dinner?'  'Confound  you!'  says 
I,  'you  talk  as  if  all  we  had  to  do  was  to  go  an'  git  'em/  'An' 
that's  what  I  b'lieve  we  kin  do,'  says  he,  'with  the  help  of  that 


THE  CHRISTMAS  WRECK  165 

bat'ry  man.5  'Yes,'  says  I,  'an'  blow  a  lot  of  the  cargo  into 
flinders,  an'  damage  the  "Mary  Auguster"  so's  she  couldn't 
never  be  took  into  port.'  An'  then  I  told  him  what  the  cap'n 
had  said  to  me,  an'  what  I  was  goin'  to  do  with  the  money. 
'A  little  catridge,'  says  Andy,  'would  do  all  we  want,  an' 
wouldn't  hurt  the  vessel  nuther.  Besides  that,  I  don't  b'lieve 
what  this  cap'n  says  about  tinkerin'  up  his  engin'.  Tain't 
likely  he'll  ever  git  her  runnin'  agin,  nor  pump  out  the 
"Mary  Auguster"  nuther.  If  I  was  you  I'd  a  durned  sight 
ruther  have  a  Christmas  dinner  in  hand  than  a  house  an' 
wife  in  the  bush.'  'I  ain't  thinkin'  o'  marryin'  a  girl  in 
Australier,'  says  I.  An'  Andy  he  grinned,  an'  said  I  wouldn't 
marry  nobody  if  I  had  to  live  on  spiled  vittles  till  I  got  her. 

"A  little  after  that  I  went  to  the  cap'n,  an'  I  told  him 
about  Andy's  idea,  but  he  was  down  on  it.  'It's  your  vessel, 
an'  not  mine,'  says  he,  'an'  if  you  want  to  try  to  git  a  dinner 
out  of  her  I'll  not  stand  in  your  way.  But  it's  my  'pinion 
you'll  just  damage  the  ship,  an'  do  nothin'.'  Howsomdever 
I  talked  to  the  bat'ry  man  about  it,  an'  he  thought  it  could  be 
done,  an'  not  hurt  the  ship  nuther.  The  men  was  all  in  favor 
of  it,  for  none  of  'em  had  forgot  it  was  Christmas  day.  But 
Tom  Simmons,  he  was  agin  it  strong,  for  he  was  thinkin' 
he'd  git  some  of  the  money  if  we  got  the  'Mary  Auguster' 
into  port.  He  was  a  selfish-minded  man,  was  Tom,  but  it 
was  his  nater,  an'  I  s'pose  he  couldn't  help  it. 

"Well,  it  wasn't  long  before  I  began  to  feel  pretty  empty, 
an'  mean,  an'  if  I'd  a  wanted  any  of  the  prog  we  got  out 
the  day  afore,  I  couldn't  have  found  much,  for  the  men  had 
eat  it  up  nearly  all  in  the  night.  An'  so,  I  just  made  up 
my  mind  without  any  more  foolin',  an'  me,  and  Andy  Boyle, 
an'  the  bat'ry  man,  with  some  catridges  an'  a  coil  of  wire, 
got  into  the  little  shore  boat,  and  pulled  over  to  the  'Mary 
Auguster.'  There  we  lowered  a  small  catridge  down  the 
main  hatch-way,  an'  let  it  rest  down  among  the  cargo.  Then 
we  rowed  back  to  the  steamer,  uncoilin'  the  wire  as  we  went. 
The  bat'ry  man  dumb  up  on  deck,  an'  fixed  his  wire  to  a 
'lectric  machine,  which  he'd  got  all  ready  afore  we  started. 
Andy  and  me  didn't  git  out  of  the  boat;  we  had  too  much 
sense  for  that,  with  all  them  hungry  fellers  waitin'  to  jump 


166    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

in  her;  but  we  just  pushed  a  little  off,  an'  sot  waitin',  with 
our  mouths  a  watering  for  him  to  touch  her  off.  He  seemed 
to  be  a  long  time  about  it,  but  at  last  he  did  it,  an'  that  in 
stant  there  was  a  bang  on  board  the  'Mary  Auguster'  that 
made  my  heart  jump.  Andy  an'  me  pulled  fur  her  like  mad, 
the  others  a-hollerin'  after  us,  an'  we  was  on  deck  in  no 
time.  The  deck  was  all  covered  with  the  water  that  had 
been  throwed  up;  but  I  tell  you,  sir,  that  we  poked  an'  fished 
about,  an'  Andy  stripped  an'  went  down,  an'  swum  all  round, 
an'  we  couldn't  find  one  floatin'  box  of  canned  goods.  There 
was  a  lot  of  splinters,  but  where  they  come  from  we  didn't 
know.  By  this  time  my  dander  was  up,  an'  I  just  pitched 
around  savage.  That  little  catridge  wasn't  no  good,  an* 
I  didn't  intend  to  stand  any  more  foolin'.  We  just  rowed 
back  to  the  other  wreck,  an'  I  called  to  the  bat'ry  man  to 
come  down,  an'  bring  some  bigger  catridges  with  him,  fur  if 
we  was  goin'  to  do  anythin'  we  might  as  well  do  it  right.  So 
he  got  down  with  a  package  of  bigger  ones,  an'  jumped  into 
the  boat.  The  cap'n  he  called  out  to  us  to  be  keerful,  an' 
Tom  Simmons  leaned  over  the  rail,  an'  swored,  but  I  didn't 
pay  no  'tension  to  nuther  of  'em,  an'  we  pulled  away. 

"When  I  got  aboard  the  Mary  Auguster  I  says  to  the 
bat'ry  man:  'We  don't  want  no  nonsense  this  time,  an'  I 
want  you  to  put  in  enough  catridges  to  heave  up  somethin' 
that'll  do  fur  a  Christmas  dinner.  I  don't  know  how  the 
cargo  is  stored,  but  you  kin  put  one  big  catridge  'midship, 
another  for'ard,  an'  another  aft,  an'  one  or  nuther  of  'em 
oughter  fetch  up  something  Well,  we  got  the  three  cat 
ridges  into  place.  They  was  a  good  deal  bigger  than  the  one 
we  first  used,  an'  we  j'ined  'em  all  to  one  wire,  an'  then  we 
rowed  back,  carryin'  the  long  wire  with  us.  When  we 
reached  the  steamer,  me  an'  Andy  was  a  goin'  to  stay  in  the 
boat  as  we  did  afore,  but  the  cap'n  sung  out  that  he  wouldn't 
allow  the  bat'ry  to  be  touched  off  till  we  come  aboard.  'Trier's 
got  to  be  fair  play,'  says  he.  'It's  your  vittles,  but  it's  my 
side  that's  doin'  the  work.  After  we've  blasted  her  this  time 
you  two  can  go  in  the  boat,  an'  see  what  there  is  to  get  hold 
of,  but  two  of  my  men  must  go  along.'  So  me  an'  Andy 
had  to  go  on  deck,  an'  two  big  fellers  was  detailed  to  go  with 


THE  CHRISTMAS  WRECK  167 

us  in  the  little  boat  when  the  time  come;  an'  then  the  bat'ry 
man,  he  teched  her  off. 

"Well,  sir,  the  pop  that  followed  that  tech  was  somethin'  to 
remember.  It  shuck  the  water,  it  shuck  the  air,  an'  it  shuck 
the  hull  we  was  on.  A  reg'lar  cloud  of  smoke,  an'  flyin' 
bits  of  things  rose  up  out  of  the  Mary  Auguster.  An'  when 
that  smoke  cleared  away,  an'  the  water  was  all  bilin'  with 
the  splash  of  various  sized  hunks  that  come  rainin'  down 
from  the  sky,  what  was  left  of  the  Mary  Auguster  was 
sprinkled  over  the  sea  like  a  wooden  carpet  for  water  birds 
to  walk  on. 

"Some  of  the  men  sung  out  one  thing,  an*  some  another, 
an'  I  could  hear  Tom  Simmons  swear,  but  Andy  an'  me 
said  never  a  word,  but  scuttled  down  into  the  boat,  follered 
close  by  the  two  men  who  was  to  go  with  us.  Then  we  rowed 
like  devils  for  the  lot  of  stuff  that  was  bobbin'  about  on  the 
water,  out  where  the  Mary  Auguster  had  been.  In  we  went, 
among  the  floatin'  spars  and  ship's  timbers,  I  keepin'  the 
things  off  with  an  oar,  the  two  men  rowin',  an'  Andy  in  the 
bow. 

"Suddenly  Andy  give  a  yell,  an'  then  he  reached  himself 
for'ard  with  sech  a  bounce  that  I  thought  he'd  go  overboard. 
But  up  he  come  in  a  minnit,  his  two  'leven-inch  hands 
gripped  round  a  box.  He  sot  down  in  the  bottom  of  the 
boat  with  the  box  on  his  lap,  an'  his  eyes  screwed  on  some 
letters  that  was  stamped  on  one  end.  'Pidjin  pies!'  he  sings 
out.  'Tain't  turkeys,  nor  'tain't  cranberries.  But,  by  the 
Lord  Harry,  it's  Christmas  pies  all  the  same!'  After  that 
Andy  didn't  do  no  more  work  but  sot  holdin'  that  box  as  if 
it  had  been  his  fust  baby.  But  we  kep'  pushin'  on  to  see  what 
else  there  was.  It's  my  'pinion  that  the  biggest  part  of  that 
bark's  cargo  was  blown  into  mince  meat,  an'  the  most  of  the 
rest  of  it  was  so  heavy  that  it  sunk.  But  it  wasn't  all  busted 
up,  an*  it  didn't  all  sink.  There  was  a  big  piece  of  wreck 
with  a  lot  of  boxes  stove  into  the  timbers,  and  some  of  these 
had  in  'em  beef  ready  biled  an'  packed  into  cans,  an'  there 
was  other  kinds  of  meat,  an'  dif'rent  sorts  of  vegetables,  an' 
one  box  of  turtle  soup.  I  look  at  every  one  of  'em  as  we 
took  'em  in,  an'  when  we  got  the  little  boat  pretty  well 


168    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

loaded  I  wanted  to  still  keep  on  searching  but  the  men,  they 
said  that  shore  boat  ud  sink  if  we  took  in  any  more  cargo,  an' 
so  we  put  back,  I  feelin'  glummer'n  I  oughter  felt,  fur  I  had 
begun  to  be  afeared  that  canned  fruit,  such  as  peaches,  was 
heavy,  an'  li'ble  to  sink. 

"As  soon  as  we  had  got  our  boxes  aboard,  four  fresh  men 
put  out  in  the  boat,  an'  after  awhile  they  come  back  with 
another  load;  an'  I  was  mighty  keerful  to  read  the  names  on 
all  the  boxes.  Some  was  meat  pies,  an'  some  was  salmon,  an' 
some  was  potted  herrin's  an'  some  was  lobsters.  But  nary  a 
thing  could  I  see  that  ever  had  growed  on  a  tree. 

"Well,  sir,  there  was  three  loads  brought  in,  altogether, 
an'  the  Christmas  dinner  we  had  on  the  for'ard  deck  of  that 
steamer's  hull  was  about  the  jolliest  one  that  was  ever  seen 
of  a  hot  day  aboard -of  a  wreck  in  the  Pacific  Ocean.  The 
cap'n  kept  good  order,  an'  when  all  was  ready  the  tops  was 
jerked  off  the  boxes,  and  each  man  grabbed  a  can  an'  opened 
it  with  his  knife.  When  he  had  cleaned  it  out,  he  tuk 
another  without  doin'  much  questionin'  as  to  the  bill  of  fare. 
Whether  anybody  got  pidjin  pie  'cept  Andy,  I  can't  say,  but 
the  way  we  piled  in  Delmoniker  prog  would  'a'  made  people 
open  their  eyes  as  was  eatin'  their  Christmas  dinners  on  shore 
that  day.  Some  of  the  things  would  'a'  been  better,  cooked 
a  little  more,  or  het  up,  but  we  was  too  fearful  hungry  to 
wait  for  that,  an'  they  was  tip-top  as  they  was. 

"The  cap'n  went  out  afterwards,  an'  towed  in  a  couple  of 
bar'ls  of  flour  that  was  only  part  soaked  through,  an'  he  got 
some  other  plain  prog  that  would  do  fur  futur  use ;  but  none 
of  us  give  our  minds  to  stuff  like  this  arter  the  glorious 
Christmas  dinner  that  we'd  quarried  out  of  the  'Mary  Augus- 
ter.'  Every  man  that  wasn't  on  duty  went  below,  and  turned 
in  for  a  snooze.  All  'cept  me,  an'  I  didn't  feel  just  altogether 
satisfied.  To  be  sure  I'd  had  an  A  1  dinner,  an'  though 
a  little  mixed,  I'd  never  eat  a  jollier  one  on  any  Christmas 
that  I  kin  look  back  at.  But,  fur  all  that,  there  was  a  hanker 
inside  o'  me.  I  hadn't  got  all  I'd  laid  out  to  git,  when  we 
teched  off  the  Mary  Auguster.  The  day  was  blazin'  hot, 
an*  a  lot  of  the  things  I'd  eat  was  pretty  peppery.  'Now/ 
thinks  I,  'if  there  had  a-been  just  one  can  o'  peaches  sech  as 


THE  CHRISTMAS  WRECK  169 

I  see  shinin'  in  the  stars  last  night/  an'  just  then,  as  I  was 
walkin'  aft,  all  by  myself,  I  seed  lodged  on  the  stump  of  the 
mizzenmast,  a  box  with  one  corner  druv  down  among  the 
splinters.  It  was  half  split  open,  an'  I  could  see  the  tin  cans 
shinin'  through  the  crack.  I  give  one  jump  at  it,  an' 
wrenched  the  side  off.  On  the  top  of  the  first  can  I  seed  was 
a  picture  of  a  big  white  peach  with  green  leaves.  That  box 
had  been  blowed  up  so  high  that  if  it  had  come  down  any 
where  'cept  among  them  splinters  it  would  a  smashed  itself 
to  Hinders,  or  killed  somebody.  So  fur  as  I  know,  it  was  the 
only  thing  that  fell  nigh  us,  an'  by  George,  sir,  I  got  it! 
Then  we  went  aft,  an'  eat  some  more.  'Well,'  says  Andy,  as 
we  was  a-eatin',  'how  d'ye  feel  now  about  blowin'  up  your 
wife,  an'  your  house,  an'  that  little  schooner  you  was  goin' 
to  own?* 

"  'Andy,'  says  I,  'this  is  the  joyfulest  Christmas  I've  had 
yit,  an'  if  I  was  to  live  till  twenty  hundred  I  don't  b'lieve 
I'd  have  no  joyfuller,  with  things  comin'  in  so  pat,  so  don't 
you  throw  no  shadders.' 

"  'Shadders,'  says  Andy,  'that  ain't  me.  I  leave  that  sort 
of  thing  fur  Tom  Simmons.' 

"  'Shadders  is  cool,'  says  I,  'an'  I  kin  go  to  sleep  under 
all  he  throws.' 

"Well,  sir,"  continued  old  Silas,  putting  his  hand  on  the 
tiller  and  turning  his  face  seaward,  "if  Tom  Simmons  had 
kept  command  of  that  wreck,  we  all  would  'a'  laid  there  an' 
waited  an'  waited  till  some  of  us  was  starved,  an'  the  others 
got  nothin'  fur  it,  fur  the  cap'n  never  mended  his  engin',  an' 
it  was  more'n  a  week  afore  we  was  took  off,  an'  then  it  was 
by  a  sailin'  vessel,  which  left  the  hull  of  the  Water  Crescent 
behind  her,  just  as  she  would  'a'  had  to  leave  the  Mary 
Auguster  if  that  jolly  old  Christmas  wreck  had  a-been  there. 

"An'  now  sir,"  said  Silas,  "d'ye  see  that  stretch  o'  little 
ripples  over  yander,  lookin'  as  if  it  was  a  lot  o'  herrin'  turnin' 
over  to  dry  their  sides?  Do  you  know  what  that  is?  That's 
the  supper  wind.  That  means  coffee,  an'  hot  cakes,  an'  a 
bit  of  br'iled  fish,  an'  pertaters,  an'  p'raps — if  the  old  woman 
feels  in  a  partiklar  good  humor — some  canned  peaches,  big 
white  uns,  cut  in  half,  with  a  holler  place  in  the  middle  filled 
with  cool,  sweet  juice." 


THE  MISSION  OF  JANE  * 

BY  EDITH  WHARTON 

I 

LETHBURY,  surveying  his  wife  across  the  dinner  table, 
found  his  transient  glance  arrested  by  an  indefinable 
change  in  her  appearance. 

"How  smart  you  look!    Is  that  a  new  gown?"  he  asked. 

Her  answering  look  seemed  to  deprecate  his  charging  her 
with  the  extravagance  of  wasting  a  new  gown  on  him,  and 
he  now  perceived  that  the  change  lay  deeper  than  any  acci 
dent  of  dress.  At  the  same  time,  he  noticed  that  she  be 
trayed  her  consciousness  of  it  by  a  delicate,  almost  frightened 
blush.  It  was  one  of  the  compensations  of  Mrs.  Lethbury's 
protracted  childishness  that  she  still  blushed  as  prettily  as 
at  eighteen.  Her  body  had  been  privileged  not  to  outstrip 
her  mind,  and  the  two,  as  it  seemed  to  Lethbury,  were  des 
tined  to  travel  together  through  an  eternity  of  girlishness. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said. 

Since  she  never  did,  he  always  wondered  at  her  bring 
ing  this  out  as  a  fresh  grievance  against  him ;  but  his  wonder 
was  unresentful,  and  he  said  good-humoredly :  "You  sparkle 
so  that  I  thought  you  had  on  your  diamonds." 

She  sighed  and  blushed  again. 

"It  must  be,"  he  continued,  "that  you've  been  to  a  dress 
maker's  opening.  You're  absolutely  brimming  with  illicit 
enjoyment." 

She  stared  again,  this  time  at  the  adjective.  His  adjec 
tives  always  embarrassed  her:  their  unintelligibleness  sav 
oured  of  impropriety. 

*From  "The  Descent  of  Man,"  copyright,  1904,  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons.  By  permission  of  the  publishers  and  the  author. 

170 


THE  MISSION  OP  JANE  171 

"In  short,"  he  summed  up,  "you've  been  doing  something 
that  you're  thoroughly  ashamed  of." 

To  his  surprise  she  retorted:  "I  don't  see  why  I  should  be 
ashamed  of  it!" 

Lethbury  leaned  back  with  a  smile  of  enjoyment.  When 
there  was  nothing  better  going  he  always  liked  to  listen  to 
her  explanations. 

"Well—?"  he  said. 

She  was  becoming  breathless  and  ejaculatory.  "Of  course 
you'll  laugh — you  laugh  at  everything!" 

"That  rather  blunts  the  point  of  my  derision,  doesn't  it?" 
he  interjected;  but  she  pushed  on  without  noticing: 

"It's  so  easy  to  laugh  at  things." 

"Ah,"  murmured  Lethbury  with  relish,  "that's  Aunt  So- 
phronia's,  isn't  it?" 

Most  of  his  wife's  opinions  were  heirlooms,  and  he  took  a 
quaint  pleasure  in  tracing  their  descent.  She  was  proud  of 
their  age,  and  saw  no  reason  for  discarding  them  while  they 
were  still  serviceable.  Some,  of  course,  were  so  fine  that  she 
kept  them  for  state  occasions,  like  her  great-grandmother's 
Crown  Derby;  but  from  the  lady  known  as  Aunt  Sophronia 
she  had  inherited  a  stout  set  of  every-day  prejudices  that 
were  practically  as  good  as  new;  whereas  her  husband's,  as 
she  noticed,  were  always  having  to  be  replaced.  In  the  early 
days  she  had  fancied  there  might  be  a  certain  satisfaction  in 
taxing  him  with  the  fact;  but  she  had  long  since  been  silenced 
by  the  reply:  "My  dear,  I'm  not  a  rich  man,  but  I  never  use 
an  opinion  twice  if  I  can  help  it." 

She  was  reduced,  therefore,  to  dwelling  on  his  moral  defi 
ciencies  ;  and  one  of  the  most  obvious  of  these  was  his  refusal 
to  take  things  seriously.  On  this  occasion,  however,  some 
ulterior  purpose  kept  her  from  taking  up  his  taunt. 

"I'm  not  in  the  least  ashamed!"  she  repeated,  with  the  air 
of  shaking  a  banner  to  the  wind;  but  the  domestic  atmos 
phere  being  calm,  the  banner  drooped  unheroically. 

"That,"  said  Lethbury  judicially,  "encourages  me  to  infer 
that  you  ought  to  be,  and  that,  consequently,  you've  been 
giving  yourself  the  unusual  pleasure  of  doing  something  I 
shouldn't  approve  of." 


172    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

She  met  this  with  an  almost  solemn  directness.  "No/* 
she  said.  "You  won't  approve  of  it.  I've  allowed  for  that." 

"Ah,"  he  exclaimed,  setting  down  his  liqueur-glass. 
"You've  worked  out  the  whole  problem,  eh?" 

"I  believe  so." 

"That's  uncommonly  interesting.    And  what  is  it?" 

She  looked  at  him  quietly.     "A  baby." 

If  it  was  seldom  given  her  to  surprise  him,  she  had  at 
tained  the  distinction  for  once. 

"A  baby?" 

"Yes." 

"A—human  baby?" 

"Of  course!"  she  cried,  with  the  virtuous  resentment  of  the 
woman  who  has  never  allowed  dogs  in  the  house. 

Lethbury's  puzzled  stare  broke  into  a  fresh  smile.  "A 
baby  I  shan't  approve  of?  Well,  in  the  abstract  I  don't 
think  much  of  them,  I  admit.  Is  this  an  abstract  baby?" 

Again  she  frowned  at  the  adjective;  but  she  had  reached 
a  pitch  of  exaltation  at  which  such  obstacles  could  not  deter 
her. 

"It's  the  loveliest  baby — "  she  murmured. 

"Ah,  then  it's  concrete.  It  exists.  In  this  harsh  world 
it  draws  its  breath  in  pain — " 

"It's  the  healthiest  child  I  ever  saw!"  she  indignantly 
corrected. 

"You've  seen  it,  then?" 

Again  the  accusing  blush  suffused  her.  "Yes — I've 
seen  it." 

"And  to  whom  does  the  paragon  belong?" 

And  here  indeed  she  confounded  him.  "To  me — I  hope," 
she  declared. 

He  pushed  his  chair  back  with  an  articulate  murmur. 
"To  you—  ?" 

"To  MS,"  she  corrected. 

"Good  Lord !"  he  said.  If  there  had  been  the  least  hint  of 
hallucination  in  her  transparent  gaze — but  no;  it  was  as 
clear,  as  shallow,  as  easily  fathomable  as  when  he  had  first 
suffered  the  sharp  surprise  of  striking  bottom  in  it. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  perhaps  she  was  trying  to  be  funny : 


THE  MISSION  OF  JANE  173 

he  knew  that  there  is  nothing  more  cryptic  than  the  humor 
of  the  unhumorous. 

"Is  it  a  joke?"  he  faltered. 

"Oh,  I  hope  not.     I  want  it  so  much  to  be  a  reality — " 

He  paused  to  smile  at  the  limitations  of  a  world  in  which 
jokes  were  not  realities,  and  continued  gently:  "But  since  it 
is  one  already — " 

"To  us,  I  mean:  to  you  and  me.  I  want — "  her  voice 
wavered,  and  her  eyes  with  it.  "I  have  always  wanted  so 
dreadfully  ...  it  has  been  such  a  disappointment 
.  .  .  not  to  .  .  ." 

"I  see,"  said  Lethbury  slowly. 

But  he  had  not  seen  before.  It  seemed  curious  now  that 
he  had  never  thought  of  her  taking  it  in  that  way,  had  never 
surmised  any  hidden  depths  beneath  her  outspread  obvious 
ness.  He  felt  as  though  he  had  touched  a  secret  spring  in 
her  mind. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  moist  and  tremulous  on  her 
part,  awkward  and  slightly  irritated  on  his. 

"You've  been  lonely,  I  suppose?"  he  began.  It  was  odd, 
having  suddenly  to  reckon  with  the  stranger  who  gazed  at 
him  out  of  her  trivial  eyes. 

"At  times,"  she  said. 

"I'm  sorry." 

"It  was  not  your  fault.  A  man  has  so  many  occupations; 
and  women  who  are  clever — or  very  handsome — I  suppose 
that's  an  occupation  too.  Sometimes  I've  felt  that  when 
dinner  was  ordered  I  had  nothing  to  do  till  the  next  day." 

"Oh,"  he  groaned. 

"It  wasn't  your  fault,"  she  insisted.  "I  never  told  you — 
but  when  I  chose  that  rose-bud  paper  for  the  front-room 
upstairs,  I  always  thought — " 

"Well—?" 

"It  would  be  such  a  pretty  paper — for  a  baby — to  wake 
up  in.  That  was  years  ago,  of  course;  but  it  was  rather  an 
expensive  paper  .  .  .  and  it  hasn't  faded  in  the  least 
.  .  ."  she  broke  off  incoherently. 

"It  hasn't  faded?" 

"No — and  so  I  thought    .    .    .    as  we  don't  use  the  room 


174    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

for  anything  .  .  .  now  that  Aunt  Sophronia  is  dead 
.  .  .  I  thought  I  might  .  .  .  you  might  .  .  . 
oh,  Julian,  if  you  could  only  have  seen  it  just  waking  up  in 
its  crib  1" 

"Seen  what — where?  You  haven't  got  a  baby  upstairs?" 
"Oh,  no — not  yet,"  she  said,  with  her  rare  laugh — the 
girlish  bubbling  of  merriment  that  had  seemed  one  of  her 
chief  graces  in  the  early  days.  It  occurred  to  him  that  he 
had  not  given  her  enough  things  to  laugh  about  lately.  But 
then  she  needed  such  very  elementary  things :  she  was  as  dim- 
cult  to  amuse  as  a  savage.  He  concluded  that  he  was  not 
sufficiently  simple. 

"Alice,"  he  said  almost  solemnly,  "what  do  you  mean?" 
She  hesitated  a  moment:  he  saw  her  gather  her  courage 
for  a  supreme  effort.     Then  she  said  slowly,  gravely,   as 
though  she  were  pronouncing  a  sacramental  phrase: 

"I'm  so  lonely  without  a  little  child — and  I  thought  per 
haps  you'd  let  me  adopt  one  .  .  .  It's  at  the  hospital 
.  .  .  its  mother  is  dead  .  .  .  and  I  could  .  .  . 
pet  it,  and  dress  it,  and  do  things  for  it  ...  and  it's 
such  a  good  baby  .  .  .  you  can  ask  any  of  the  nurses 
.  ,  .  it  would  never,  never  bother  you  by  crying  .  .  ." 

II 

Lethbury  accompanied  his  wife  to  the  hospital  in  a  mood 
of  chastened  wonder.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  oppose  her 
wish.  He  knew,  of  course,  that  he  would  have  to  bear  the 
brunt  of  the  situation:  the  jokes  at  the  club,  the  enquiries, 
the  explanations.  He  saw  himself  in  the  comic  role  of  the 
adopted  father  and  welcomed  it  as  an  expiation.  For  in 
his  rapid  reconstruction  of  the  past  he  found  himself  cutting 
a  shabbier  figure  than  he  cared  to  admit.  He  had  always 
been  intolerant  of  stupid  people,  and  it  was  his  punishment 
to  be  convicted  of  stupidity.  As  his  mind  traversed  the 
years  between  his  marriage  and  this  unexpected  assumption 
of  paternity,  he  saw,  in  the  light  of  an  overheated  imagina 
tion,  many  signs  of  unwonted  crassness.  It  was  not  that  he 
had  ceased  to  think  his  wife  stupid :  she  was  stupid,  limited, 


THE  MISSION  OF  JANE  175 

inflexible;  but  there  was  a  pathos  in  the  struggles  of  her 
swaddled  mind,  in  its  blind  Teachings  toward  the  primal  emo 
tions.  He  had  always  thought  she  would  have  been  happier 
with  a  child;  but  he  had  thought  it  mechanically,  because  it 
had  so  often  been  thought  before,  because  it  was  in  the  nature 
of  things  to  think  it  of  every  woman,  because  his  wife  was  so 
eminently  one  of  a  species  that  she  fitted  into  all  the  gen 
eralizations  of  the  sex.  But  he  had  regarded  this  generaliza 
tion  as  merely  typical  of  the  triumph  of  tradition  over  expe 
rience.  Maternity  was  no  doubt  the  supreme  function  of 
primitive  woman,  the  one  end  to  which  her  whole  organism 
tended;  but  the  law  of  increasing  complexity  had  operated  in 
both  sexes,  and  he  had  not  seriously  supposed  that,  outside 
the  world  of  Christmas  fiction  and  anecdotic  art,  such  truisms 
had  any  special  hold  on  the  feminine  imagination.  Now  he 
saw  that  the  arts  in  question  were  kept  alive  by  the  vitality 
of  the  sentiments  they  appealed  to. 

Lethbury  was  in  fact  going  through  a  rapid  process  of  re 
adjustment.  His  marriage  had  been  a  failure,  but  he  had 
preserved  toward  his  wife  the  exact  fidelity  of  act  that  is 
sometimes  supposed  to  excuse  any  divagation  of  feeling;  so 
that,  for  years,  the  tie  between  them  had  consisted  mainly  in 
his  abstaining  from  making  love  to  other  women.  The  ab 
stention  had  not  always  been  easy,  for  the  world  is  surpris 
ingly  well-stocked  with  the  kind  of  woman  one  ought  to  have 
married  but  did  not;  and  Lethbury  had  not  escaped  the  solic 
itation  of  such  alternatives.  His  immunity  had  been  pur 
chased  at  the  cost  of  taking  refuge  in  the  somewhat  rarefied 
atmosphere  of  his  perceptions ;  and  his  world  being  thus  lim 
ited,  he  had  given  unusual  care  to  its  details,  compensating 
himself  for  the  narrowness  of  his  horizon  by  the  minute 
finish  of  his  foreground.  It  was  a  world  of  fine  shadings 
and  the  nicest  proportions,  where  impulse  seldom  set  a  blund 
ering  foot,  and  the  feast  of  reason  was  undisturbed  by  anj 
intemperate  flow  of  soul.  To  such  a  banquet  his  wife  nat 
urally  remained  uninvited.  The  diet  would  have  disagreed 
with  her,  and  she  would  prqbably  have  objected  to  the  other 
guests.  But  Lethbury,  miscalculating  her  needs,  had  hitherto 
supposed  that  he  had  made  ample  provision  for  them,  and 


176    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

was  consequently  at  liberty  to  enjoy  his  own  fare  without 
any  reproach  of  mendicancy  at  his  gates.  Now  he  beheld  her 
pressing  a  starved  face  against  the  windows  of  his  life,  and 
in  his  imaginative  reaction  he  invested  her  with  a  pathos 
borrowed  from  the  sense  of  his  own  shortcomings. 

In  the  hospital  the  imaginative  process  continued  with  in 
creasing  force.  He  looked  at  his  wife  with  new  eyes.  Form 
erly  she  had  been  to  him  a  mere  bundle  of  negations,  a  laby 
rinth  of  dead  walls  and  bolted  doors.  There  was  nothing 
behind  the  walls,  and  the  doors  led  no  whither:  he  had 
sounded  and  listened  often  enough  to  be  sure  of  that.  Now 
he  felt  like  a  traveler  who,  exploring  some  ancient  ruin, 
comes  on  an  inner  cell,  intact  amid  the  general  dilapidation, 
and  painted  with  images  which  reveal  the  forgotten  uses  of 
the  building. 

His  wife  stood  by  a  white  crib  in  one  of  the  wards.  In 
the  crib  lay  a  child,  a  year  old,  the  nurse  affirmed,  but  to 
Lethbury's  eye  a  mere  dateless  fragment  of  humanity  pro 
jected  against  a  background  of  conjecture.  Over  this  anony 
mous  particle  of  life  Mrs.  Lethbury  leaned,  such  ecstasy 
reflected  in  her  face  as  strikes  up,  in  Correggio's  Night-piece, 
from  the  child's  body  to  the  mother's  countenance.  It  was 
a  light  that  irradiated  and  dazzled  her.  She  looked  up  at 
an  enquiry  of  Lethbury's,  but  as  their  glances  met  he  per 
ceived  that  she  no  longer  saw  him,  that  he  had  become  as  in 
visible  to  her  as  she  had  long  been  to  him.  He  had  to  trans 
fer  his  question  to  the  nurse. 

"What  is  the  child's  name?"  he  asked. 

"We  call  her  Jane,"  said  the  nurse. 

Ill 

Lethbury,  at  first,  had  resisted  the  idea  of  a  legal  adoption; 
but  when  he  found  that  his  wife  could  not  be  brought  to 
regard  the  child  as  hers  till  it  had  been  made  so  by  process 
of  law,  he  promptly  withdrew  his  objection.  On  one  point 
only  he  remained  inflexible;  and  that  was  the  changing  of 
the  waif's  name.  Mrs.  Lethbury,  almost  at  once,  had  ex 
pressed  a  wish  to  rechristen  it :  she  fluctuated  between  Muriel 


THE  MISSION  OF  JANE  177 

and  Gladys,  deferring  the  moment  of  decision  like  a  lady 
wavering  between  two  bonnets.  But  Lethbury  was  unyield 
ing.  In  the  general  surrender  of  his  prejudices  this  one 
alone  held  out. 

"But  Jane  is  so  dreadful,"  Mrs.  Lethbury  protested. 

"Well,  we  don't  know  that  she  won't  be  dreadful.  She 
may  grow  up  a  Jane." 

His  wife  exclaimed  reproachfully.  "The  nurse  says  she's 
the  loveliest — " 

"Don't  they  always  say  that?"  asked  Lethbury  patiently. 
He  was  prepared  to  be  inexhaustibly  patient  now  that  he  had 
reached  a  firm  foothold  of  opposition. 

"It's  cruel  to  call  her  Jane,"  Mrs.  Lethbury  pleaded. 

"It's  ridiculous  to  call  her  Muriel." 

"The  nurse  is  sure  she  must  be  a  lady's  child." 

Lethbury  winced :  he  had  tried,  all  along,  to  keep  his  mind 
off  the  question  of  antecedents. 

"Well,  let  her  prove  it,"  he  said,  with  a  rising  sense  of 
exasperation.  He  wondered  how  he  could  ever  have  allowed 
himself  to  be  drawn  into  such  a  ridiculous  business;  for  the 
first  time  he  felt  the  fully  irony  of  it.  He  had  visions  of 
coming  home  in  the  afternoon  to  a  house  smelling  of  linseed 
and  paregoric,  and  of  being  greeted  by  a  chronic  howl  as  he 
went  up-stairs  to  dress  for  dinner.  He  had  never  been  a 
club-man,  but  he  saw  himself  becoming  one  now. 

The  worst  of  his  anticipations  were  unfulfilled.  The  baby 
was  surprisingly  well  and  surprisingly  quiet.  Such  infan 
tile  remedies  as  she  absorbed  were  not  potent  enough  to  be 
perceived  beyond  the  nursery;  and  when  Lethbury  could  be 
induced  to  enter  that  sanctuary,  there  was  nothing  to  jar  his 
nerves  in  the  mild  pink  presence  of  his  adopted  daughter. 
Jars  there  were,  indeed:  they  were  probably  inevitable  in  the 
disturbed  routine  of  the  household;  but  they  occurred  be 
tween  Mrs.  Lethbury  and  the  nurses,  and  Jane  contributed  to 
them  only  a  placid  stare  which  might  have  served  as  a  rebuke 
to  the  combatants. 

In  the  reaction  from  his  first  impulse  of  atonement,  Leth 
bury  noted  with  sharpened  perceptions  the  effect  of  the 
change  on  his  wife's  character.  He  saw  already  the  error 


•178   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

of  supposing  that»it  could  work  any  transformation  in  her. 
It  simply  magnified  her  existing  qualities.  She  was  like  a 
dried  sponge  put  in  water:  she  expanded,  but  she  did  not 
change  her  shape.  From  the  stand-point  of  scientific  obser 
vation  it  was  curious  to  see  how  her  stored  instincts  re 
sponded  to  the  pseudo-maternal  call.  She  overflowed  with 
the  petty  maxims  of  the  occasion.  One  felt  in  her  the  epi 
tome,  the  consummation,  of  centuries  of  animal  maternity, 
so  that  this  little  woman,  who  screamed  at  a  mouse  and  was 
nervous  about  burglars,  came  to  typify  the  cave-mother  rend 
ing  her  prey  for  her  young. 

It  was  less  easy  to  regard  philosophically  the  practical 
effects  of  her  borrowed  motherhood.  Lethbury  found  with 
surprise  that  she  was  becoming  assertive  and  definite.  She 
no  longer  represented  the  negative  side  of  his  life;  she  showed, 
indeed,  a  tendency  to  inconvenient  affirmations.  She  had 
gradually  expanded  her  assumption  of  motherhood  till  it 
included  his  own  share  in  the  relation,  and  he  suddenly  found 
himself  regarded  as  the  father  of  Jane.  This  was  a  contin 
gency  he  had  not  forseen,  and  it  took  all  his  philosophy  to 
accept  it;  but  there  were  moments  of  compensation.  For 
Mrs.  Lethbury  was  undoubtedly  happy  for  the  first  time  in 
years ;  and  the  thought  that  he  had  tardily  contributed  to  this 
end  reconciled  him  to  the  irony  of  the  means. 

At  first  he  was  inclined  to  reproach  himself  for  still  view 
ing  the  situation  from  the  outside,  for  remaining  a  spectator 
instead  of  a  participant.  He  had  been  allured,  for  a  mo 
ment,  by  the  vision  of  several  hands  meeting  over  a  cradle, 
as  the  whole  body  of  domestic  fiction  bears  witness  to  their 
doing;  and  the  fact  that  no  such  conjunction  took  place  he 
could  explain  only  on  the  ground  that  it  was  a  borrowed 
cradle.  He  did  not  dislike  the  little  girl.  She  still  re 
mained  to  him  a  hypothetical  presence,  a  query  rather  than 
a  fact;  but  her  nearness  was  not  unpleasant,  and  there  were 
moments  when  her  tentative  utterances,  her  groping  steps, 
seemed  to  loosen  the  dry  accretions  enveloping  his  inner  self. 
But  even  at  such  moments — moments  which  he  invited  and 
caressed — she  did  not  bring  him  nearer  to  his  wife.  He 
now  perceived  that  he  had  made  a  certain  place  in  his  life 


THE  MISSION  OF  JANE  179 

for  Mrs.  Lethbury,  and  that  she  no  longer  fitted  into  it.  It 
was  too  late  to  enlarge  the  space,  and  so  she  overflowed  and 
encroached.  Lethbury  struggled  against  the  sense  of  sub 
mergence.  He  let  down  barrier  after  barrier,  yielding  pri 
vacy  after  privacy;  but  his  wife's  personality  continued  to 
dilate.  She  was  no  longer  herself  alone :  she  was  herself  and 
Jane.  Gradually,  in  a  monstrous  fusion  of  identity,  she  be 
came  herself,  himself  and  Jane;  and  instead  of  trying  to 
adapt  her  to  a  spare  crevice  of  his  character,  he  found  him 
self  carelessly  squeezed  into  the"  smallest  compartment  of  the 
domestic  economy. 

IV 

He  continued  to  tell  himself  that  he  was  satisfied  if  his 
wife  was  happy;  and  it  was  not  till  the  child's  tenth  year 
that  he  felt  a  doubt  of  her  happiness. 

Jane  had  been  a  preternaturally  good  child.  During  the 
eight  years  of  her  adoption  she  had  caused  her  foster-parents 
no  anxiety  beyond  those  connected  with  the  usual  succession 
of  youthful  diseases.  But  her  unknown  progenitors  had 
given  her  a  robust  constitution,  and  she  passed  unperturbed 
through  measles,  chicken-pox  and  whooping-cough.  If  there 
was  any  suffering  it  was  endured  vicariously  by  Mrs.  Leth 
bury,  whose  temperature  rose  and  fell  with  the  patient's, 
and  who  could  not  hear  Jane  sneeze  without  visions  of  a 
marble  angel  weeping  over  a  broken  column.  But  though 
Jane's  prompt  recoveries  continued  to  belie  such  premoni 
tions,  though  her  existence  continued  to  move  forward  on  an 
even  keel  of  good  health  and  good  conduct,  Mrs.  Lethbury 's 
satisfaction  showed  no  corresponding  advance.  Lethbury,  at 
first,  was  disposed  to  add  her  disappointment  to  the  long  list 
of  feminine  inconsistencies  with  which  -  the  sententious  ob 
server  of  life  builds  up  his  favorable  induction;  but  circum 
stances  presently  led  him  to  take  a  kindlier  view  of  the  case. 

Hitherto  his  wife  had  regarded  him  as  a  negligible  factor 
in  Jane's  evolution.  Beyond  providing  for  his  adopted 
daughter,  and  effacing  himself  before  her,  he  was  not  ex 
pected  to  contribute  to  her  well-being.  But  as  time  passed 


i8o   THE  GREAT  MODERN,  AMERICAN  STORIES 

he  appeared  to  his  wife  in  a  new  light.  It  was  he  who  was 
to  educate  Jane.  In  matters  of  the  intellect,  Mrs.  Lethbury 
was  the  first  to  declare  her  deficiencies — to  proclaim  them, 
even,  with  a  certain  virtuous  superiority.  She  said  she  did 
not  pretend  to  be  clever,  and  there  was  no  denying  the  truth 
of  the  assertion.  Now,  however,  she  seemed  less  ready,  not  to 
own  her  limitations,  but  to  glory  in  them.  Confronted  with 
the  problem  of  Jane's  instruction  she  stood  in  awe  of  the 
child. 

"I  have  always  been  stupid,  you  know,"  she  said  to  Leth 
bury  with  a  new  humility,  "and  I'm  afraid  I  shan't  know 
what  is  best  for  Jane.  I'm  sure  she  has  a  wonderfully  good 
mind,  and  I  should  reproach  myself  if  I  didn't  give  her  every 
opportunity/'  She  looked  at  him  helplessly.  "You  must 
tell  me  what  ought  to  be  done." 

Lethbury  was  not  unwilling  to  oblige  her.  Somewhere  in 
his  mental  lumber-room  there  rusted  a  theory  of  education 
such  as  usually  lingers  among  the  impedimenta  of  the  child 
less.  He  brought  this  out,  refurbished  it,  and  applied  it  to 
Jane.  At  first  he  thought  his  wife  had  not  overrated  the 
quality  of  the  child's  mind.  Jane  seemed  extraordinarily 
intelligent.  Her  precocious  definiteness  of  mind  was  en 
couraging  to  her  inexperienced  preceptor.  She  had  no  diffi 
culty  in  fixing  her  attention,  and  he  felt  that  every  fact  he 
imparted  was  being  etched  in  metal.  He  helped  his  wife  to 
engage  the  best  teachers,  and  for  a  while  continued  to  take 
an  ex-official  interest  in  his  adopted  daughter's  studies.  But 
gradually  his  interest  waned.  Jane's  ideas  did  not  increase 
with  her  acquisitions.  Her  young  mind  remained  a  mere 
receptacle  for  facts :  a  kind  of  cold-storage  from  which  any 
thing  which  had  been  put  there  could  be  taken  out  at  a  mo 
ment's  notice,  intact  but  congealed.  She  developed,  more 
over,  an  inordinate  pride  in  the  capacity  of  her  mental  store 
house,  and  a  tendency  to  pelt  her  public  with  its  contents. 
She  was  overheard  to  jeer  at  her  nurse  for  not  knowing  when 
the  Saxon  Heptarchy  had  fallen,  and  she  alternately  dazzled 
and  depressed  Mrs.  Lethbury  by  the  wealth  of  her  chronolog 
ical  allusions.  She  showed  no  interest  in  the  significance  of 
the  facts  she  amassed:  she  simply  collected  dates  as  another 


THE  MISSION  OF  JANE  181 

child  might  have  collected  stamps  or  marbles.  To  her  foster- 
mother  she  seemed  a  prodigy  of  wisdom;  but  Lethbury  saw, 
with  a  secret  movement  of  sympathy,  how  the  aptitudes  in 
which  Mrs.  Lethbury  gloried  were  slowly  estranging  her  from 
her  child. 

"She  is  getting  too  clever  for  me,"  his  wife  said  to  him, 
after  one  of  Jane's  historical  flights,  "but  I  am  so  glad  that 
she  will  be  a  companion  to  you." 

Lethbury  groaned  in  spirit.  He  did  not  look  forward  to 
Jane's  companionship.  She  was  still  a  good  little  girl;  but 
there  was  something  automatic  and  formal  in  her  goodness, 
as  though  it  were  a  kind  of  moral  calisthenics  which  she  went 
through  for  the  sake  of  showing  her  agility.  An  early  con 
sciousness  of  virtue  had  moreover  constituted  her  the  natural 
guardian  and  adviser  of  her  elders.  Before  she  was  fifteen 
she  had  set  about  reforming  the  household.  She  took  Mrs., 
Lethbury  in  hand  first;  then  she  extended  her  efforts  to  the 
servants,  with  consequences  more  disastrous  to  the  domestic 
harmony;  and  lastly  she  applied  herself  to  Lethbury.  She 
proved  to  him  by  statistics  that  he  smoked  too  much,  and  that 
it  was  injurious  to  the  optic  nerve  to  read  in  bed.  She  took 
him  to  task  for  not  going  to  church  more  regularly,  and 
pointed  out  to  him  the  evils  of  desultory  reading.  She  sug 
gested  that  a  regular  course  of  study  encourages  mental  con 
centration,  and  hinted  that  inconsecutiveness  of  thought  is  a 
sign  of  approaching  age. 

To  her  adopted  mother  her  suggestions  were  equally  perti 
nent.  She  instructed  Mrs.  Lethbury  in  an  improved  way  of 
making  beef  stock,  and  called  her  attention  to  the  unhygienic 
qualities  of  carpets.  She  poured  out  distracting  facts  about 
bacilli  and  vegetable  mould,  and  demonstrated  that  curtains 
and  picture -frames  are  a  hot-bed  of  animal  organisms.  She 
learned  by  heart  the  nutritive  ingredients  of  the  principal 
articles  of  diet,  and  revolutionized  the  cuisine  by  an  attempt 
to  establish  a  scientific  average  between  starch  and  phos 
phates.  Four  cooks  left  during  this  experiment,  and  Leth 
bury  fell  into  the  habit  of  dining  at  his  club. 

Once  or  twice,  at  the  outset,  he  had  tried  to  check  Jane's 
ardor;  but  his  efforts  resulted  only  in  hurting  his  wife's 


182   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

feelings.  Jane  remained  impervious,  and  Mrs.  Lethbury  re 
sented  any  attempt  to  protect  her  from  her  daughter.  Leth 
bury  saw  that  she  was  consoled  for  the  sense  of  her  own  in 
feriority  by  the  thought  of  what  Jane's  intellectual  com 
panionship  must  be  to  him;  and  he  tried  to  keep  up  the 
illusion  by  enduring  with  what  grace  he  might  the  blighting 
edification  of  Jane's  discourse. 


As  Jane  grew  up  he  sometimes  avenged  himself  by  won 
dering  if  his  wife  was  still  sorry  that  they  had  not  called  her 
'Muriel.  Jane  was  not  ugly;  she  developed,  indeed,  a  kind 
of  categorical  prettiness  which  might  have  been  a  projection 
of  her  mind.  She  had  a  creditable  collection  of  features,  but 
one  had  to  take  an  inventory  of  them  to  find  out  that  she 
was  good-looking.  The  fusing  grace  had  been  omitted. 

Mrs.  Lethbury  took  a  touching  pride  in  her  daughter's  first 
steps  in  the  world.  She  expected  Jane  to  take  by  her  com 
plexion  those  whom  she  did  not  capture  by  her  learning. 
But  Jane's  rosy  freshness  did  not  work  any  perceptible  rav 
ages.  Whether  the  young  men  guessed  the  axioms  on  her 
lips  and  detected  the  encyclopaedia  in  her  eye,  or  whether 
they  simply  found  no  intrinsic  interest  in  these  features,  cer 
tain  it  is,  that,  in  spite  of  her  mother's  heroic  efforts,  and  of 
incessant  calls  on  Lethbury's  purse,  Jane,  at  the  end  of  her 
first  season,  had  dropped  hopelessly  out  of  the  running.  A 
few  duller  girls  found  her  interesting,  and  one  or  two  young 
men  came  to  the  house  with  the  object  of  meeting  other  young 
women;  but  she  was  rapidly  becoming  one  of  the  social  su 
pernumeraries  who  are  asked  out  only  because  they  are  on 
people's  lists. 

The  blow  was  bitter  to  Mrs.  Lethbury;  but  she  consoled 
herself  with  the  idea  that  Jane  had  failed  because  she  was 
too  clever.  Jane  probably  shared  this  conviction;  at  all 
events  she  betrayed  no  consciousness  of  failure.  She  had  de 
veloped  a  pronounced  taste  for  society,  and  went  out,  un- 
weariedly  and  obstinately,  winter  after  winter,  while  Mrs. 
Lethbury  toiled  in  her  wake,  showering  attentions  on  oblivious 


THE  MISSION  OF  JANE  183 

hostesses.  To  Lethbury  there  was  something  at  once  tragic 
and  exasperating  in  the  sight  of  their  two  figures,  the  one 
conciliatory,  the  other  dogged,  both  pursuing  with  unabated 
zeal  the  elusive  prize  of  popularity.  He  even  began  to  feel 
a  personal  stake  in  the  pursuit,  not  as  it  concerned  Jane  but 
as  it  affected  his  wife.  He  saw  that  the  latter  was  the  vic 
tim  of  Jane's  disappointment:  that  Jane  was  not  above  the 
crude  satisfaction  of  "taking  it  out"  of  her  mother.  Expe 
rience  checked  the  impulse  to  come  to  his  wife's  defence;  and 
when  his  resentment  was  at  its  height,  Jane  disarmed  him 
by  giving  up  the  struggle. 

Nothing  was  said  to  mark  her  capitulation;  but  Lethbury 
noticed  that  the  visiting  ceased  and  that  the  dressmaker's 
bills  diminished.  At  the  same  time  Mrs.  Lethbury  made  it 
known  that  Jane  had  taken  up  charities;  and  before  long 
Jane's  conversation  confirmed  this  announcement.  At  first 
Lethbury  congratulated  himself  on  the  change;  but  Jane's 
domesticity  soon  began  to  weigh  on  him.  During  the  day 
she  was  sometimes  absent  on  errands  of  mercy;  but  in  the 
evening  she  was  always  there.  At  first  she  and  Mrs.  Leth 
bury  sat  in  the  drawing-room  together,  and  Lethbury  smoked 
in  the  library;  but  presently  Jane  formed  the  habit  of  joining 
him  there,  and  he  began  to  suspect  that  he  was  included 
among  the  objects  of  her  philanthropy. 

Mrs.  Lethbury  confirmed  the  suspicion.  "Jane  has  grown 
very  serious-minded  lately,"  she  said.  "She  imagines  that 
she  used  to  neglect  you  and  she  is  trying  to  make  up  for  it. 
Don't  discourage  her,"  she  added  innocently. 

Such  a  plea  delivered  Lethbury  helpless  to  his  daughter's 
ministrations;  and  he  found  himself  measuring  the  hours  he 
spent  with  her  by  the  amount  of  relief  they  must  be  affording 
her  mother.  There  were  even  moments  when  he  read  a  fur-, 
live  gratitude  in  Mrs.  Lethbury's  eye. 

But  Lethbury  was  no  hero,  and  he  had  nearly  reached  the 
limit  of  vicarious  endurance  when  something  wonderful  hap 
pened.  They  never  quite  knew  afterward  how  it  had  come 
about,  or  who  first  perceived  it;  but  Mrs.  Lethbury  one  day 
gave  tremulous  voice  to  their  discovery. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "he  comes  here  because  of  Elise." 


184    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

The  young  lady  in  question,  a  friend  of  Jane's,  was  pos 
sessed  of  attractions  which  had  already  been  found  to  ex 
plain  the  presence  of  masculine  visitors. 

Lethbury  risked  a  denial.  "I  don't  thing  he  does,"  he  de 
clared. 

"But  Elise  is  thought  very  pretty,"  Mrs.  Lethbury  insisted. 

"I  can't  help  that,"  said  Lethbury  doggedly. 

He  saw  a  faint  light  in  his  wife's  eyes,  but  she  remarked 
carelessly:  "Mr.  Budd  would  be  a  very  good  match  for 
Elise." 

Lethbury  could  hardly  repress  a  chuckle:  he  was  so  ex 
quisitely  aware  that  she  was  trying  to  propitiate  the  gods. 

For  a  few  weeks  neither  said  a  word;  then  Mrs.  Lethbury 
once  more  reverted  to  the  subject. 

"It  is  a  month  since  Elise  went  abroad,"  she  said. 

"Is  it?" 

"And  Mr.  Budd  seems  to  come  here  just  as  often—-" 

"Ah,"  said  Lethbury  with  heroic  indifference;  and  his  wife 
hastily  changed  the  subject. 

Mr.  Winstanley  Budd  was  a  young  man  who  suffered  from 
an  excess  of  manner.  Politeness  gushed  from  him  in  the 
driest  season.  He  was  always  performing  feats  of  drawing- 
room  chivalry,  and  the  approach  of  the  most  unobtrusive 
female  threw  him  into  attitudes  which  endangered  the  furni 
ture.  His  features,  being  of  the  cherubic  order,  did  not  lend 
themselves  to  this  role;  but  there  were  moments  when  he  ap 
peared  to  dominate  them,  to  force  them  into  compliance  with 
an  aquiline  ideal.  The  range  of  Mr.  Budd's  social  benevo 
lence  made  its  object  hard  to  distinguish.  He  spread  his 
cloak  so  indiscriminately  that  one  could  not  always  interpret 
the  gesture,  and  Jane's  impassive  manner  had  the  effect 
of  increasing  his  demonstrations:  she  threw  him  into  parox 
ysms  of  politeness. 

At  first  he  filled  the  house  with  his  amenities;  but  gradu 
ally  it  became  apparent  that  his  most  dazzling  effects  were 
directed  exclusively  to  Jane.  Lethbury  and  his  wife  held 
their  breath  and  looked  away  from  each  other.  They  pre 
tended  not  to  notice  the  frequency  of  Mr.  Budd's  visits,  they 
struggled  against  an  imprudent  inclination  to  leave  the  young 


THE  MISSION  OF  JANE  185 

people  too  much  alone.  Their  conclusions  were  the  result 
of  indirect  observation,  for  neither  of  them  dared  to  be 
caught  watching  Mr.  Budd:  they  behaved  like  naturalists 
on  the  trail  of  a  rare  butterfly. 

In  his  efforts  not  to  notice  Mr.  Budd,  Lethbury  centred  his 
attentions  on  Jane;  and  Jane,  at  this  crucial  moment,  wrung 
from  him  a  reluctant  admiration.  While  her  parents  went 
about  dissembling  their  emotions,  she  seemed  to  have  none  to 
conceal.  She  betrayed  neither  eagerness  nor  surprise;  so 
complete  was  her  unconcern  that  there  were  moments  when 
Lethbury  feared  it  was  obtuseness,  when  he  could  hardly 
help  whispering  to  her  that  now  was  the  moment  to  lower  the 
net. 

Meanwhile  the  velocity  of  Mr.  Budd's  gyrations  increased 
with  the  ardor  of  courtship;  his  politeness  became  incandes 
cent,  and  Jane  found  herself  the  centre  of  a  pyrotechnical 
display  culminating  in  the  "set  piece"  of  an  offer  of  marriage. 

Mrs.  Lethbury  imparted  the  news  to  her  husband  one  even 
ing  after  their  daughter  had  gone  to  bed.  The  announce 
ment  was  made  and  received  with  an  air  of  detachment,  as 
though  both  feared  to  be  betrayed  into  unseemly  exultation; 
but  Lethbury,  as  his  wife  ended,  could  not  repress  the  in 
quiry,  "Have  they  decided  on  a  day?" 

Mrs.  Lethbury's  superior  command  of  her  features  en 
abled  her  to  look  shocked.  "What  can  you  be  thinking  of? 
He  only  offered  himself  at  five!" 

"Of  course — of  course — "  stammered  Lethbury — "but  now 
adays  people  marry  after  such  short  engagements — " 

"Engagement  1"  said  his  wife  solemnly,  "There  is  no 
engagement." 

Lethbury  dropped  his  cigar.  "What  on  earth  do  you 
mean?" 

"Jane  is  thinking  it  over." 

"Thinking  it  over?" 

"She  has  asked  for  a  month  before  deciding." 

Lethbury  sank  back  with  a  gasp.  Was  it  genius  or  was  it 
madness?  He  felt  incompetent  to  decide;  and  Mrs.  Leth 
bury's  next  words  showed  that  she  shared  his  difficulty. 

"Of  course  I  don't  want  to  hurry  Jane — " 


i86    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"Of  course  not,"  he  acquiesced. 

"But  I  pointed  out  to  her  that  a  young  man  of  Mr.  Budd's 
impulsive  temperament  might — might  be  easily  discour- 
aged—" 

"Yes;  and  what  did  she  say?" 

"She  said  that  if  she  was  worth  winning  she  was  worth 
waiting  for." 

VI 

The  period  of  Mr.  Budd's  probation  could  scarcely  have 
cost  him  as  much  mental  anguish  as  it  caused  his  would-be 
parents-in-law. 

Mrs.  Lethbury,  by  various  ruses,  tried  to  shorten  the  ordeal, 
but  Jane  remained  inexorable;  and  each  morning  Lethbury 
came  down  to  breakfast  with  the  certainty  of  finding  a  letter 
of  withdrawal  from  her  discouraged  suitor. 

When  at  length  the  decisive  day  came,  and  Mrs.  Lethbury, 
at  its  close,  stole  into  the  library  with  an  air  of  chastened 
joy,  they  stood  for  a  moment  without  speaking;  then  Mrs. 
Lethbury  paid  a  fitting  tribute  to  the  proprieties  by  faltering 
out:  "It  will  be  dreadful  to  have  to  give  her  up — " 

Lethbury  could  not  repress  a  warning  gesture;  but  even  as 
it  escaped  him  he  realized  that  his  wife's  grief  was  genuine. 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  he  said,  vainly  sounding  his  own 
emotional  shallows  for  an  answering  regret.  And  yet  it  was 
his  wife  who  had  suffered  most  from  Jane ! 

He  had  fancied  that  these  sufferings  would  be  effaced  by 
the  milder  atmosphere  of  their  last  weeks  together;  but  feli 
city  did  not  soften  Jane.  Not  for  a  moment  did  she  relax  her 
dominion:  she  simply  widened  it  to  include  a  new  subject. 
Mr.  Budd  found  himself  under  orders  with  the  others;  and 
a  new  fear  assailed  Lethbury  as  he  saw  Jane  assume  pre- 
nuptial  control  of  her  betrothed.  Lethbury  had  never  felt 
any  strong  personal  interest  in  Mr.  Budd;  but  as  Jane's 
prospective  husband  the  young  man  excited  his  sympathy. 
To  his  surprise  he  found  that  Mrs.  Lethbury  shared  the 
feeling. 

"I'm  afraid  he  may  find  Jane  a  little  exacting,"  she  saidr 


THE  MISSION  OF  JANE  187 

after  an  evening  dedicated  to  a  stormy  discussion  of  the  wed 
ding  arrangements.  "She  really  ought  to  make  some  con 
cessions.  If  he  wants  to  be  married  in  a  black  frock-coat 
instead  of  a  dark  gray  one — "  She  paused  and  looked  doubt 
fully  at  Lethbury. 

"What  can  I  do  about  it?"  he  said. 

"You  might  explain  to  him — tell  him  that  Jane  isn't  al 
ways — " 

Lethbury  made  an  impatient  gesture.  "What  are  you 
afraid  of?  His  finding  her  out  or  his  not  finding  her  out?" 

Mrs.  Lethbury  flushed.     "You  put  it  so  dreadfully!" 

Her  husband  mused  for  a  moment;  then  he  said  with  an 
air  of  cheerful  hypocrisy:  "After  all,  Budd  is  old  enough  to 
take  care  of  himself." 

But  the  next  day  Mrs.  Lethbury  surprised  him.  Late 
in  the  afternoon  she  entered  the  library,  so  breathless  and 
inarticulate  that  he  scented  a  catastrophe. 

"I've  done  it!"  she  cried. 

"Done  what?" 

"Told  him."  She  nodded  toward  the  door.  "He's  just 
gone.  Jane  is  out,  and  I  had  a  chance  to  talk  to  him  alone." 

Lethbury  pushed  a  chair  forward  and  she  sank  into  it. 

"What  did  you  tell  him?    That  she  is  not  always — " 

Mrs.  Lethbury  lifted  a  tragic  eye.  "No;  I  told  him  that 
she  always  is — " 

"Always  is—  ?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  a  pause.  Lethbury  made  a  call  on  his  hoarded 
philosophy.  He  saw  Jane  suddenly  reinstated  in  her  even 
ing  seat  by  the  library  fire;  but  an  answering  chord  in  him 
thrilled  at  his  wife's  heroism. 

"Well— what  did  he  say?" 

Mrs.  Lethbury 's  agitation  deepened.  It  was  clear  that  the 
blow  had  fallen. 

"He  ...  he  said  .  .  .  that  we  ...  had  never 
understood  Jane  ...  or  appreciated  her  .  .  ."  The 
final  syllables  were  lost  in  her  handkerchief,  and  she  left 
him  marvelling  at  the  mechanism  of  woman. 

After  that,  Lethbury  faced  the  future  with  an  undaunted 


188    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

eye.  They  had  done  their  duty — at  least  his  wife  had  done 
hers — and  they  were  reaping  the  usual  harvest  of  ingratitude 
with  a  zest  seldom  accorded  to  such  reaping.  There  was  a 
marked  change  in  Mr.  Budd's  manner,  and  his  increasing 
coldness  sent  a  genial  glow  through  Lethbury 's  system.  It 
was  easy  to  bear  with  Jane  in  the  light  of  Mr.  Budd's  dis 
approval. 

There  was  a  good  deal  to  be  borne  in  the  last  days,  and 
the  brunt  of  it  fell  on  Mrs.  Lethbury.  Jane  marked  her 
transition  to  the  married  state  by  a  seasonable  but  incon 
gruous  display  of  nerves.  She  became  sentimental,  hysterical 
and  reluctant.  She  quarrelled  with  her  betrothed  and 
threatened  to  return  the  ring.  Mrs.  Lethbury  had  to  inter 
vene,  and  Lethbury  felt  the  hovering  sword  of  destiny.  But 
the  blow  was  suspended.  Mr.  Budd's  chivalry  was  proof 
against  all  his  bride's  caprices  and  his  devotion  throve  on 
her  cruelty.  Lethbury  feared  that  he  was  too  faithful,  too 
enduring,  and  longed  to  urge  him  to  vary  his  tactics.  Jane 
presently  reappeared  with  the  ring  on  her  finger,  and  con 
sented  to  try  on  the  wedding-dress;  but  her  uncertainties,  her 
reactions,  were  prolonged  till  the  final  day. 

When  it  dawned,  Lethbury  was  still  in  an  ecstasy  of  ap 
prehension.  Feeling  reasonably  sure  of  the  principal  actors 
he  had  centered  his  fears  on  incidental  possibilities.  The 
clergyman  might  have  a  stroke,  or  the  church  might  burn 
down,  or  there  might  be  something  wrong  with  the  license. 
He  did  all  that  was  humanly  possible  to  avert  such  con 
tingencies,  but  there  remained  that  incalcuable  factor  known 
as  the  hand  of  God.  Lethbury  seemed  to  feel  it  groping  for 
him. 

At  the  altar  it  almost  had  him  by  the  nape.  Mr.  Budd 
was  late;  and  for  five  immeasurable  minutes  Lethbury  and 
Jane  faced  a  churchful  of  conjecture.  Then  the  bridegroom 
appeared,  flushed  but  chivalrous,  and  explaining  to  his 
father-in-law  under  cover  of  the  ritual  that  he  had  torn  his 
glove  and  had  to  go  back  for  another. 

"You'll  be  losing  the  ring  next,"  muttered  Lethbury;  but 
Mr.  Budd  produced  this  article  punctually,  and  a  moment 
or  two  later  was  bearing  its  wearer  captive  down  the  aisle. 


THE  MISSION  OF  JANE  189 

At  the  wedding-breakfast  Lethbury  caught  his  wife's  eye 
fixed  on  him  in  mild  disapproval,  and  understood  that  his 
hilarity  was  exceeding  the  bounds  of  fitness.  He  pulled  him 
self  together  and  tried  to  subdue  his  tone;  but  his  jubilation 
bubbled  over  like  a  champagne-glass  perpetually  refilled. 
The  deeper  his  draughts  the  higher  it  rose. 

It  was  at  the  brim  when,  in  the  wake  of  the  dispersing 
guests,  Jane  came  down  in  her  travelling-dress  and  fell  on 
her  mother's  neck. 

"I  can't  leave  you!"  she  wailed,  and  Lethbury  felt  as 
suddenly  sobered  as  a  man  under  a  douche.  But  if  the  bride 
was  reluctant  her  captor  was  relentless.  Never  had  Air. 
Budd  been  more  dominant,  more  aquiline.  Lethbury's  last 
fears  were  dissipated  as  the  young  man  snatched  Jane  from 
her  mother's  bosom  and  bore  her  off  to  the  brougham. 

The  brougham  rolled  away,  the  last  milliner's  girl  forsook 
her  post  by  the  awning,  the  red  carpet  was  folded  up,  and 
the  house  door  closed.  Lethbury  stood  alone  in  the  hall  with 
his  wife.  As  he  turned  toward  her,  he  noticed  the  look  of 
tired  heroism  in  her  eyes,  the  deepened  lines  of  her  face. 
They  reflected  his  own  symptoms  too  accurately  not  to  appeal 
to  him.  The  nervous  tension  had  been  horrible.  He  went 
up  to  her,  and  an  answering  impulse  made  her  lay  a  hand 
on  his  arm.  He  held  it  there  a  moment. 

"Let  us  go  off  and  have  a  jolly  little  dinner  at  a  restau 
rant,"  he  proposed. 

There  had  been  a  time  when  such  a  suggestion  would 
have  surprised  her  to  the  verge  of  disapproval;  but  now 
she  agreed  to  it  at  once. 

"Oh,  that  would  be  so  nice,"  she  murmured  with  a  great 
sigh  of  relief  and  assuagement. 

Jane  had  fulfilled  her  mission  after  all:  she  had  drawn 
them  together  at  last. 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY* 

BY  SARAH  ORNE  JEWETT 

ALL  the  morning  there  had  been  an  increasing  temp 
tation  to  take  an  out-door  holiday,  and  early  in  the 
afternoon  the  temptation  outgrew  my  power  of  re 
sistance.  A  far-away  pasture  on  the  long  southwestern 
slope  of  a  high  hill  was  persistently  present  to  my  mind,  yet 
there  seemed  to  be  no'particular  reason  why  I  should  think 
of  it.  I  was  not  sure  that  I  wanted  anything  from  the 
pasture,  and  there  was  no  sign,  except  the  temptation,  that 
the  pasture  wanted  anything  of  me.  But  I  was  on  the 
farther  side  of  as  many  as  three  fences  before  I  stopped  to 
think  again  where  I  was  going,  and  why. 

There  is  no  use  in  trying  to  tell  another  person  about  that 
afternoon  unless  he  distinctly  remembers  weather  exactly  like 
it.  No  number  of  details  concerning  an  Arctic  ice-blockade 
will  give  a  single  shiver  to  a  child  of  the  tropics.  This  was 
one  of  those  perfect  New  England  days  in  late  summer,  when 
the  spirit  of  autumn  takes  a  first  stealthy  flight,  like  a  spy, 
through  the  ripening  country-side,  and,  with  feigned 
sympathy  for  those  who  droop  with  August  heat,  puts  her 
cool  cloak  of  bracing  air  about  leaf  and  flower  and  human 
shoulders.  Every  living  thing  grows  suddenly  cheerful  and 
strong;  it  is  only  when  you  catch  sight  of  a  horror-stricken 
little  maple  in  swampy  soil — a  little  maple  that  has  second- 
sight  and  fore-knowledge  of  coming  disaster  to  her  race — 
only  then  does  a  distrust  of  autumn's  friendliness  dim  your 
joyful  satisfaction. 

In  the  midwinter  there  is  always  a  day  when  one  has  the 
first  foretaste  of  spring;  in  late  August  there  is  a  morn- 

*  By  permission  of,  and  by  special  arrangement  with,  Houghton 
Mifflin  Company,  the  authorized  publishers. 

190 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY         191 

ing  when  the  air  is  for  the  first  time  autumn-like.  Per 
haps  it  is  a  hint  to  the  squirrels  to  get  in  their  first  supplies 
for  the  winter  hoards,  or  a  reminder  that  summer  will  soon 
end,  and  everybody  had  better  make  the  most  of  it.  We  are 
always  looking  forward  to  the  passing  and  ending  of  winter, 
but  when  summer  is  here  it  seems  as  if  summer  must  always 
last.  As  I  went  across  the  fields  that  day,  I  found  myself 
half  lamenting  that  the  world  must  fade  again,  even  that 
the  best  of  her  budding  and  bloom  was  only  a  preparation 
for  another  springtime,  for  an  awakening  beyond  the  com 
ing  winter's  sleep. 

The  sun  was  slightly  veiled;  there  was  a  chattering  group 
of  birds,  which  had  gathered  for  a  conference  about  their 
early  migration.  Yet,  oddly  enough,  I  heard  the  voice  of 
a  belated  bobolink,  and  presently  saw  him  rise  from  the 
grass  and  hover  leisurely,  while  he  sang  a  brief  tune.  He 
was  much  behind  time  if  he  were  still  a  housekeeper;  but 
as  for  the  other  birds  who  listened,  they  cared  only  for  their 
own  notes.  An  old  crow  went  sagging  by,  and  gave  a  croak 
at  his  despised  neighbor,  just  as  a  black  reviewer  croaked  at 
Keats — so  hard  it  is  to  be  just  to  one's  contemporaries.  The 
bobolink  was  indeed  singing  out  of  season,  and  it  was  im 
possible  to  say  whether  he  really  belonged  most  to  this 
summer  or  to  the  next.  He  might  have  been  delayed  on  his 
northward  journey;  at  any  rate,  he  had  a  light  heart  now,  to 
judge  from  his  song,  and  I  wished  that  I  could  ask  him  a 
few  questions — how  he  liked  being  the  last  man  among  the 
bobolinks,  and  where  he  had  taken  singing  lessons  in  the 
South. 

Presently  I  left  the  lower  fields,  and  took  a  path  that  led 
higher,  where  I  could  look  beyond  the  village  to  the  northern 
country  mountainward.  Here  the  sweet  fern  grew  thick  and 
fragrant,  and  I  also  found  myself  heedlessly  treading  on 
pennyroyal.  Nearby,  in  a  field  corner,  I  long  ago  made  a 
most  comfortable  seat  by  putting  a  stray  piece  of  board  and 
bit  of  rail  across  the  angle  of  the  fences.  I  have  spent  many 
a  delightful  hour  there,  in  the  shade  and  shelter  of  a  young 
pitch-pine  and  a  wild-cherry  tree,  with  a  lovely  outlook 
toward  the  village,  just  far  enough  away  beyond  the  green. 


192    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

slopes  and  tall  elms  of  the  lower  meadows.  But  that  day  I 
still  had  the  feeling  of  being  outward  bound,  and  did  not 
turn  aside  nor  linger.  The  high  pasture  land  grew  more  and 
more  enticing. 

I  stopped  to  pick  some  blackberries  that  twinkled  at  me 
like  beads  among  their  dry  vines,  and  two  or  three  yellow- 
birds  fluttered  up  from  the  leaves  of  a  thistle  and  then  came 
back  again,  as  if  they  had  complacently  discovered  that  I 
was  only  an  overgrown  yellow-bird,  in  strange  disguise  but 
perfectly  harmless.  They  made  me  feel  as  if  I  were  an  in 
truder,  though  they  did  not  offer  to  peck  at  me,  and  we  parted 
company  very  soon.  It  was  good  to  stand  at  last  on  the  great 
shoulder  of  the  hill.  The  wind  was  coming  in  from  the 
sea,  there  was  a  fine  fragrance  from  the  pines,  and  the  air 
grew  sweeter  every  moment.  I  took  new  pleasure  in  the 
thought  that  in  a  piece  of  wild  pasture  land  like  this  one 
may  get  closest  to  Nature,  and  subsist  upon  what  she  gives 
of  her  own  free  will.  There  have  been  no  drudging,  heavy- 
shod  ploughman  to  overturn  the  soil,  and  vex  it  into  yield 
ing  artificial  crops.  Here  one  has  to  take  just  what  Nature 
is  pleased  to  give,  whether  one  is  a  yellow-bird  or  a  human 
being.  It  is  very  good  entertainment  for  a  summer  wayfarer, 
and  I  am  asking  my  reader  now  to  share  the  winter  pro 
vision  which  I  harvested  that  day.  Let  us  hope  that  the 
small  birds  are  also  faring  well  after  their  fashion,  but  I 
give  them  an  anxious  thought  while  the  snow  goes  hurrying 
in  long  waves  across  the  buried  fields,  this  windy  winter 
night. 

I  next  went  farther  down  the  hill,  and  got  a  drink  of  fresh 
cool  water  from  the  brook,  and  pulled  a  tender  sheaf  of  sweet 
flag  beside  it.  The  mossy  old  fence  just  beyond  was  the 
last  barrier  between  me  and  the  pasture  which  had  sent  an 
invisible  messenger  earlier  in  the  day,  but  I  saw  that  some 
body  else  had  come  first  to  the  rendezvous :  there  was  a  brown 
gingham  cape-bonnet  and  a  sprigged  shoulder-shawl  bob 
bing  up  and  down,  a  little  way  off  among  the  junipers.  I 
had  taken  such  uncommon  pleasure  in  being  alone  that  I 
instantly  felt  a  sense  of  disappointment;  then  a  warm  glow 
of  pleasant  satisfaction  rebuked  my  selfishness.  This  could 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY         193 

be  no  one  but  dear  old  Mrs.  Goodsoe,  the  friend  of  my  child 
hood  and  fond  dependence  of  my  maturer  years.  I  had  not 
seen  her  for  many  weeks,  but  here  she  was,  out  on  one  of  her 
famous  campaigns  for  herbs,  or  perhaps  just  returning  from 
a  blueberrying  expedition.  I  approached  with  care,  so  as 
not  to  startle  the  gingham  bonnet;  but  she  heard  the  rustle 
of  the  bushes  against  my  dress,  and  looked  up  quickly,  as 
she  knelt,  bending  over  the  turf.  In  that  position  she  was 
hardly  taller  than  the  luxuriant  junipers  themselves. 

"I'm  a-gittin'  in  my  mulleins,"  she  said  briskly,  "an'  I've 
been  thinking  o'  you  these  twenty  times  since  I  come  out  o* 
the  house.  I  begun  to  believe  you  must  ha'  forgot  me  at 
last." 

"I  have  been  away  from  home,"  I  explained.  "Why  don't 
you  get  in  your  pennyroyal  too?  There's  a  great  plantation 
of  it  beyond  the  next  fence  but  one." 

"Pennyr'yal  1"  repeated  the  dear  little  old  woman,  with  an 
air  of  compassion  for  inferior  knowledge;  "  'tain't  the  right 
time,  darlin'.  Pennyr'yal's  too  rank  now.  But  for  mulleins 
this  day  is  prime.  I've  got  a  dreadful  graspin'  fit  for  'em 
this  year;  seems  if  I  must  be  goin'  to  need  'em  extry.  I 
feel  like  the  squirrels  must  when  they  know  a  hard  winter's 
comin'."  And  Mrs.  Goodsoe  bent  over  her  work  again, 
while  I  stood  by  and  watched  her  carefully  cut  the  best  full- 
grown  leaves  with  a  clumsy  pair  of  scissors,  which  might 
have  served  through  at  least  half  a  century  of  herb-gather 
ing.  They  were  fastened  to  her  apron-strings  by  a  long 
piece  of  list. 

"I'm  going  to  take  my  jack-knife  and  help  you,"  I  sug 
gested,  with  some  fear  of  refusal.  "I  just  passed  a  flourish 
ing  family  of  six  or  seven  heads  that  must  have  been  grow 
ing  on  purpose  for  you." 

"Now  be  keerful,  dear  heart,"  was  the  anxious  response; 
"choose  'em  well.  There's  odds  in  mulleins  same's  there  is 
in  angels.  Take  a  plant  that's  all  run  up  to  stalk,  and  there 
ain't  but  little  goodness  in  the  leaves.  This  one  I'm  at  now 
must  ha'  been  stepped  on  by  some  creatur  and  blighted  of 
its  bloom,  and  the  leaves  is  han'some!  When  I  was  small 
I  used  to  have  a  notion  that  Adam  an'  Eve  must  ha'  took 


194    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

mulleins  fer  their  winter  wear.  Ain't  they  just  like  flannel, 
for  all  the  world?  IVe  had  experience,  and  I  know  there's 
plenty  of  sickness  might  be  saved  to  folks  if  they'd  quit 
horse-radish  and  such  fiery,  exasperating  things,  and  use 
mullein  drarves  in  proper  season.  Now  I  shall  spread  these 
an'  dry  'em  nice  on  my  spare  floor  in  the  garrit,  an'  come  to 
steam  'em  for  use  along  in  the  winter  there'll  be  the  valley 
of  the  whole  summer's  goodness  in  'em,  sartin."  And  she 
snipped  away  with  the  dull  scissors  while  I  listened  re 
spectfully,  and  took  great  pains  to  have  my  part  of  the 
harvest  present  a  good  appearance. 

"This  is  most  too  dry  a  head,"  she  added  presently,  a 
little  out  of  breath.  "There !  I  can  tell  you  there's  win'rows 
o'  young  doctors,  bilin'  over  with  book-larnin',  that  is  truly 
ignorant  of  what  to  do  for  the  sick,  or  how  to  p'int  out  those 
paths  that  well  people  foller  toward  sickness.  Book-fools 
I  call  'em,  them  young  men,  an'  some  on  'em  never'll  live  to 
know  much  better,  if  they  git  to  be  Methuselahs.  In  my 
time  every  middle-aged  woman  who  had  brought  up  a 
family  had  some  proper  ideas  of  dealin'  with  complaints. 
I  won't  say  but  there  was  some  fools  amongst  them,  but 
I'd  rather  take  my  chances,  unless  they'd  forsook  herbs 
and  gone  to  dealin'  with  patent  stuff.  Now  my  mother 
really  did  sense  the  use  of  herbs  and  roots.  I  never  see  any 
body  that  come  up  to  her.  She  was  a  meek-looking  woman, 
but  very  understandin'  mother  was." 

"Then  that's  where  you  learned  so  much  yourself,  Mrs. 
Goodsoe,"  I  ventured  to  say. 

"Bless  your  heart,  I  don't  hold  a  candle  to  her;  'tis  but 
little  I  can  recall  of  what  she  used  to  say.  No,  her  larnin' 
died  with  her,"  said  my  friend,  in  a  self-deprecating  tone. 
"Why,  there  was  as  many  as  twenty  kinds  of  roots  alone 
that  she  used  to  keep  by  her,  that  I  forgot  the  use  of;  an' 
I'm  sure  I  shouldn't  know  where  to  find  the  most  of  'em,  any. 
There  was  an  herb" — airb  she  called  it — "an  herb  called 
Pennsylvany;  and  she  used  to  think  everything  of  noble- 
liver-wort,  but  I  never  could  seem  to  get  the  right  effects  from 
it  as  she  could.  Though  I  don't  know  as  she  ever  really  did 
use  masterwort  where  somethin'  else  wouldn't  ha'  served.  She 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY         195 

had  a  cousin  married  out  in  Pennsylvany  that  used  to  take 
pains  to  get  it  to  her  every  year  or  two,  and  so  she  felt  't 
was  important  to  have  it.  Some  set  more  by  such  things  as 
come  from  a  distance,  but  I  rec'lect  mother  always  used  to 
maintain  that  folks  was  meant  to  be  doctored  with  the  stuff 
that  grew  right  about  'em;  'twas  sufficient,  an'  so  ordered. 
That  was  before  the  whole  population  took  to  livin'  on 
wheels,  the  way  they  do  now.  'Twas  never  my  idee  that  we 
was  meant  to  know  what's  goin'  on  all  over  the  world  to 
once.  There's  goin'  to  be  some  sort  of  a  set-back  one  o' 
these  days,  with  these  telegraphs  an'  things,  an'  letters  comin' 
every  hand's  turn,  and  folks  leavin'  their  proper  work  to 
answer  'em.  I  may  not  live  to  see  it.  'Twas  allowed  to  be 
difficult  for  folks  to  git  about  in  old  times,  or  to  git  word 
across  the  country,  and  they  stood  in  their  lot  an'  place,  and 
weren't  all  just  alike,  either,  same  as  pine-spills." 

We  were  kneeling  side  by  side  now,  as  if  in  penitence  for 
the  march  of  progress,  but  we  laughed  as  we  turned  to  look 
at  each  other. 

"Do  you  think  it  did  much  good  when  everybody  brewed 
a  cracked  quart  mug  of  herb-tea?"  I  asked,  walking  away 
on  my  knees  to  a  new  mullein. 

"I've  always  lifted  my  voice  against  the  practice,  far's  I 
could,"  declared  Mrs.  Goodsoe;  an'  I  won't  deal  out  none  o' 
the  herbs  I  save  for  no  such  nonsense.  There  was  three 
houses  along  our  road — I  call  no  names — where  you 
couldn't  go  into  the  livin'  room  without  findin'  a  mess  o' 
herb-tea  drorin'  on  the  stove  or  side  o'  the  fireplace,  winter 
or  summer,  sick  or  well.  One  was  thorough wut,  one  would 
be  camomile,  and  the  other,  like  as  not,  yellow  dock ;  but  they 
all  used  to  put  in  a  little  new  rum  to  git  out  the  goodness,  or 
keep  it  from  spilin'."  (Mrs.  Goodsoe  favored  me  with  a 
knowing  smile.)  "Land,  how  mother  used  to  laugh!  But, 
poor  creatures,  they  had  to  work  hard,  and  I  guess  it  never 
done  'em  a  mite  o'  harm;  they  was  all  good  herbs.  I  wish 
you  could  hear  the  quawkin'  there  used  to  be  when  they  was 
indulged  with  a  real  case  o'  sickness.  Everybody  would  col 
lect  from  far  an'  near;  you'd  see  'em  coming  along  the  road 
and  across  the  pastures  then;  everybody  clamorin'  that 


196   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

nothin'  would  do  no  kind  o'  good  but  her  choice  o'  teas  or 
drarves  to  the  feet.  I  wonder  there  was  a  babe  lived  to  grow 
up  in  the  whole  lower  part  o'  the  town;  an'  if  nothin'  else 
'peared  to  ail  'em,  word  was  passed  about  that  'twas  likely 
Mis'  So-and-So's  last  young  one  was  goin'  to  be  foolish. 
Land,  how  they'd  gather!  I  know  one  day  the  doctor  come 
to  Widder  Peck's  and  the  house  was  crammed  so't  he  could 
scercely  git  inside  the  door;  and  he  says,  just  as  polite,  'Do 
send  for  some  of  the  neighbors!'  as  if  there  wa'n't  a  soul 
to  turn  to,  right  or  left.  You'd  ought  to  seen  'em  begin  to 
scatter." 

"But  don't  you  think  the  cars  and  telegraphs  have  given 
people  more  to  interest  them,  Mrs.  Goodsoe?  Don't  you  be 
lieve  people's  lives  were  narrower  then,  and  more  taken  up 
with  little  things?"  I  asked,  unwisely,  being  a  product  of 
modern  times, 

"Not  one  mite,  dear,"  said  my  companion  stoutly.  "There 
was  as  big  thoughts  then  as  there  is  now;  these  times  was 
born  o'  them.  The  difference  is  in  folks  themselves ;  but  now, 
instead  o'  doin'  their  own  housekeepin'  and  watchin'  their 
own  neighbors — though  that  was  carried  to  excess — they  git 
word  that  a  niece's  child  is  ailin'  the  other  side  o'  Massa 
chusetts,  and  they  drop  everything  and  git  on  their  best 
clothes,  and  off  they  jiggit  in  the  cars.  'Tis  a  bad  sign  when 
folks  wear  out  their  best  clothes  faster  'n  they  do  their  every 
day  ones.  The  other  side  o'  Massachusetts  has  got  to  look 
after  itself  by  rights.  An'  besides  that,  Sunday-keepin's 
all  gone  out  o'  fashion.  Some  lays  it  to  one  thing  an'  some 
another,  but  some  o'  them  old  ministers  that  folks  are  all 
a-sighin'  for  did  preach  a  lot  o'  stoff  that  wa'n't  nothin'  but 
chaff;  'twa'n't  the  word  o'  God  out  o'  either  Old  Testament 
or  New.  But  everybody  went  to  meetin'  and  heard  it,  and 
come  home,  and  was  set  to  fightin'  with  their  next  door 
neighbor  over  it.  Now  I'm  a  believer,  and  I  try  to  live  a 
Christian  life,  but  I'd  as  soon  hear  a  surveyor's  book  read 
out,  figgers  an'  all,  as  try  to  get  any  simple  truth  out  o'  most 
sermons.  It's  them  as  is  most  to  blame." 

"What  was  the  matter  that  day  at  Widow  Peck's?"  I  has 
tened  to  ask,  for  I  knew  by  experience  that  the  good,  clear- 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY         197 

minded  soul  beside  me  was  apt  to  grow  unduly  vexed  and 
distressed  when  she  contemplated  the  state  of  religious  teach 
ing. 

"Why,  there  wa'n't  nothin'  the  matter,  only  a  gal  o'  Miss 
Peck's  had  met  with  a  dis'pintment  and  had  gone  into 
screechin'  fits.  'Twas  a  rovin  creatur  that  had  come  along 
hayin'  time,  and  he'd  gone  off  an'  forsook  her  betwixt  two 
days;  nobody  ever  knew  what  become  of  him.  Them  Pecks 
was  'Good  Lord,  anybody!'  kind  o'  gals,  and  took  up  with 
whoever  they  could  get.  One  of  'em  married  Heron,  the 
Irishman;  they  lived  in  that  little  house  that  was  burnt  this 
summer,  over  on  the  edge  o'  the  plains.  He  was  a  good- 
hearted  creatur,  with  a  laughin'  eye  and  a  clever  word  for 
everybody.  He  was  the  first  Irishman  that  ever  came  this 
way,  and  we  was  all  for  gettin'  a  look  at  him,  when  he 
first  used  to  go  by.  Mother's  folks  was  what  they  call 
Scotch-Irish,  though;  there  was  an  old  race  of  'em  settled 
about  here.  They  could  foretell  events,  some  on  'em,  and 
had  second  sight.  I  know  folks  used  to  say  mother's  grand 
mother  had  them  gifts,  but  mother  was  never  free  to  speak 
about  it  to  us.  She  remembered  her  well,  too." 

"I  suppose  that  you  mean  old  Jim  Heron,  who  was  such 
a  famous  fiddler?"  I  asked  with  great  interest,  for  I  am 
always  delighted  to  know  more  about  that  rustic  hero,  paro 
chial  Orpheus  that  he  must  have  been ! 

"Now,  dear  heart,  I  suppose  you  don't  rememb3r  him,  do 
you?"  replied  Mrs.  Goodsoe,  earnestly.  "Fiddle!  He'd 
about  break  your  heart  with  them  tunes  of  his,  or  else  set 
your  heels  flying  up  the  floor  in  a  jig,  though  you  was  minister 
o'  the  First  Parish  and  all  wound  up  for  a  funeral  prayer. 
I  tell  ye  there  win't  no  tunes  sounds  like  them  used  to.  It 
used  to  seem  to  me  summer  nights  when  I  was  comin'  along 
the  plains  road,  and  he  set  by  the  window  playin',  as  if 
there  was  a  betwitched  human  creatur  in  that  old  red  fiddle 
o'  his.  He  could  make  it  sound  just  like  a  woman's  voice 
tellin'  somethin'  over  and  over,  as  if  folks  could  help  her  out 
o'  her  sorrows  if  she  could  only  make  'em  understand.  I've 
set  by  the  stone-wall  and  cried  as  if  my  heart  was  broke,  and 
dear  knows  it  wa'n't  in  them  days.  How  he  would  twirl  off 


198   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

them  jigs  and  dance  tunes!  He  used  to  make  somethin* 
han'some  out  of  'em  in  fall  an'  winter,  playin'  at  huskins 
and  dancin'  parties;  but  he  was  unstiddy  by  spells,  as  he  got 
along  in  years,  and  never  knew  what  it  was  to  be  forehanded. 
Everybody  felt  bad  when  he  died;  you  couldn't  help  likin* 
the  creatur.  He'd  got  the  gift — that's  all  you  could  say 
about  it. 

"There  was  a  Mis'  Jerry  Foss,  that  lived  over  by  the 
brook  bridge,  on  the  plains  road,  that  had  lost  her  husband 
early,  and  was  left  with  three  child'n.  She  set  the  world 
by  'em,  and  was  a  real  pleasant,  ambitious  little  woman,  and 
was  workin'  on  as  best  she  could  with  that  little  farm,  when 
there  come  a  rage  o'  scarlet  fever,  and  her  boy  and  two  girls 
was  swept  off  and  laid  dead  within  the  same  week.  Every 
one  o'  the  neighbors  did  what  they  could,  but  she'd  had  no 
sleep  since  they  was  taken  sick,  and  after  the  funeral  she 
set  there  just  like  a  piece  o'  marble,  and  would  only  shake 
her  head  when  you  spoke  to  her.  They  all  thought  her 
reason  would  go;  and  'twould  certain,  if  she  couldn't  have 
shed  tears.  An'  one  o'  the  neighbors — 'twas  like  mother's 
sense,  but  it  might  have  been  somebody  else — spoke  o'  Jim 
Heron.  Mother  an'  one  or  two  o'  the  women  that  knew  her 
best  was  in  the  house  with  her.  'T  was  right  in  the  edge 
o'  the  woods  and  some  of  us  younger  ones  was  over  by  the 
wall  on  the  other  side  of  the  road  where  there  was  a  couple 
of  old  willows — I  remember  just  how  the  brook  damp  felt — 
and  we  kept  quiet's  we  could,  and  some  other  folks  come 
along  down  the  road,  and  stood  waitin'  on  the  little  bridge, 
hopin'  somebody'd  come  out,  I  suppose,  and  they'd  git  news. 
Everybody  was  wrought  up,  and  felt  a  good  deal  for  her,  you 
know.  By  an'  by  Jim  Heron  come  stealin'  right  out  o'  the 
shadows  an'  set  down  on  the  doorstep,  an'  'twas  a  good  while 
before  we  heard  a  sound;  then,  oh,  dear  me!  'twas  what* 
the  whole  neighborhood  felt  for  that  mother  all  spoke  in  the 
notes,  an'  they  told  me  afterwards  that  Mis'  Foss's  face 
changed  in  a  minute,  and  she  come  right  over  an'  got  into 
my  mother's  lap — she  was  a  little  woman — an'  laid  her 
head  down,  and  there  she  cried  herself  into  a  blessed  sleep. 
After  awhile  one  o'  the  other  women  stole  out  an'  told  the 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY         199 

folks,  and  we  all  went  home.    He  only  played  that  one  tune. 

"But  there  1"  resumed  Mrs.  Goodsoe,  after  a  silence,  dur 
ing  which  my  eyes  were  filled  with  tears.  "His  wife  always 
complained  that  the  fiddle  made  her  nervous.  She  never 
'peared  to  think  nothin'  o*  poor  Heron  after  she'd  once  got 
him." 

"That's  often  the  way,"  said  I,  with  harsh  cynicism, 
though  I  had  no  guilty  person  in  my  mind  at  the  moment; 
and  we  went  straying  off,  not  very  far  apart,  up  through  the 
pasture.  Mrs.  Goodsoe  cautioned  me  that  we  must  not  get 
so  far  off  that  we  could  not  get  back  the  same  day.  The 
sunshine  began  to  feel  very  hot  on  our  backs,  and  we  both 
turned  toward  the  shade.  We  had  already  collected  a  large 
bundle  of  mullein  leaves,  which  were  carefully  laid  into  a 
clean,  calico  apron,  held  together  by  the  four  corners,  and 
proudly  carried  by  me,  though  my  companion  regarded  them 
with  anxious  eyes.  We  sat  down  together  at  the  edge  of  the 
pine  woods,  and  Mrs.  Goodsoe  proceeded  to  fan  herself  with 
her  limp  cape-bonnet 

"I  declare,  how  hot  it  is!  The  east  wind's  all  gone  again," 
she  said.  "It  felt  so  cool  this  forenoon  that  I  overburdened 
myself  with  as  thick  a  petticoat  as  any  I've  got.  I'm 
despri't  afeared  of  having  a  chill,  now  that  I  ain't  so  young 
as  once.  I  hate  to  be  housed  up." 

"It's  only  August,  after  all,"  I  assured  her  unnecessarily, 
confirming  my  statement  by  taking  two  peaches  out  of  my 
pocket,  and  laying  them  side  by  side  on  the  brown  pine 
needles  between  us. 

"Dear  sakes  alive!"  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  with  evident 
pleasure.  "Where  did  you  get  them,  now?  Doesn't  any 
thing  taste  twice  better  out-o'-doors  ?  I  ain't  had  such  a 
peach  for  years.  Do  le's  keep  the  stones,  an'  I'll  plant  'em; 
it  only  takes  four  years  for  a  peach  pit  to  come  to  bear 
ing,  an?  I  guess  I'm  good  for  four  years,  'thout  I  meet  with 
some  accident.53 

I  could  not  help  agreeing,  or  taking  a  fond  look  at  the 
thin  little  figure,  and  her  wrinkled  brown  face  and  kind, 
twinkling  eyes.  She  looked  as  if  she  had  properly  dried  her 
self,  by  mistake,  with  some  of  her  mullein  leaves,  and  was 


200    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

likely  to  keep  her  goodness,  and  to  last  the  longer  in  con 
sequence.  There  never  was  a  truer,  simple-hearted  soul  made 
out  of  the  old-fashioned  country  dust  than  Mrs.  Goodsoe.  I 
thought,  as  I  looked  away  from  her  across  the  wide  country, 
that  nobody  was  left  in  any  of  the  farmhouses  so  origi 
nal,  so  full  of  rural  wisdom  and  reminiscence,  so  really 
able  and  dependable,  as  she.  And  nobody  had  made  better 
use  of  her  time  in  a  world  foolish  enough  to  sometimes 
under-value  medicinal  herbs. 

When  we  had  eaten  our  peaches  we  still  sat  under  the 
pines,  and  I  was  not  without  pride  <when  I  had  poked  about 
in  the  ground  with  a  little  twig,  and  displayed  to  my  crony 
a  long  fine  root,  bright  yellow  to  the  eye,  and  a  wholesome 
bitter  to  the  taste. 

"Yis,  dear,  goldthread,"  she  assented  indulgently.  "Seems 
to  me  there's  more  of  it  than  anything  except  grass  an7  hard 
tack.  Good  for  canker,  but  no  better  than  two  or  three  other 
things  I  can  call  to  mind;  but  I  always  lay  in  a  good  wisp 
of  it,  for  old  times'  sake.  Now,  I  want  to  know  why  you 
should  ha*  bit  it,  and  took  away  all  the  taste  o'  your  nice 
peach?  I  was  just  thinkinj  what  a  han'some  entertainment 
we've  had.  I've  got  so  I  'sociate  certain  things  with  certain 
folks,  and  goldthread  was  somethin'  Lizy  Wisby  couldn't 
keep  house  without,  no  ways  whatever.  I  believe  ::he  took  so 
much  it  kind  o"  puckered  her  disposition,," 

"Lizy  Wisby?"     I  repeated  inquiringly. 

"You  knew  her,  if  ever,  by  the  name  of  Mis'  Deacon 
Brimblecom,"  answered  my  friend,  as  if  this  were  only  a 
brief  preface  to  further  information,  so  I  waited  with  re 
spectful  expectation.  Mrs.  Goodsoe  had  grown  tired  out  in 
the  sun,  and  a  good  story  would  be  an  excuse  for  sufficient 
rest.  It  was  a  most  lovely  place  where  we  sat,  half-way  up 
the  long  hillside;  for  my  part,  I  was  perfectly  contented  and 
happy.  "You've  often  heard  of  Deacon  Brimblecom?"  she 
asked,  as  if  a  great  deal  depended  upon  his  being  properly 
introduced. 

"I  remember  him,"  said  I.  "They  called  him  Deacon 
Brimfull,  you  know,  and  he  used  to  go  about  with  a  witch- 
hazel  branch  to  show  people  where  to  dig  wells." 


THE  COURTING  OP  SISTER  WISBY        201 

"That's  the  one/'  said  Mrs.  Goodsoe,  laughing.  "I  didn't 
know's  you  could  go  so  far  back.  I'm  always  divided  be 
tween  whether  you  can  remember  everything  I  can,  or  are 
only  a  babe  in  arms." 

"I  have  a  dim  recollection  of  there  being  something 
strange  about  their  marriage,"  I  suggested,  after  a  pause, 
which  began  to  appear  dangerous.  I  was  so  much  afraid 
the  subject  would  be  changed. 

"I  can  tell  you  all  about  it,"  I  was  quickly  answered. 
"Deacon  Brimblecom  was  very  pious  accordin'  to  his  lights 
in  his  early  years.  He  lived  way  back  in  the  country  then, 
and  there  come  a  rovin'  preacher  along,  and  set  everybody 
up  that  way  all  by  the  ears.  I've  heard  the  old  folks  talk  it 
over,  but  I  forget  most  of  his  doctrine,  except  some  of  his 
followers  was  persuaded  they  could  dwell  among  the  angels 
while  yet  on  airth,  and  this  Deacon  Brimfull,  as  you  call 
him,  felt  sure  he  was  called  by  the  voice  of  a  spirit  bride. 
So  he  left  a  good,  deservin'  wife  he  had,  an'  four  children, 
and  built  him  a  new  house  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  land 
he'd  had  from  his  father.  They  didn't  take  much  pains  with 
the  buildin',  because  they  expected  to  be  translated  before 
long,,  and  then  the  spirit  brides  and  them  folks  was  goin' 
to  appear  and  divide  up  the  airth  amongst  'em,  and  the 
world's  folks  and  on-believers  was  goin'  to  serve  'em  or  be 
sent  to  torments.  They  had  meetin's  about  in  the  school- 
houses,  an*  all  sorts  o'  goin's  on;  some  on  'em  went  crazy, 
but  the  deacon  held  on  to  what  wits  he  had,  an'  by  an'  by 
the  spirit  bride  didn't  turn  out  to  be  much  of  a  housekeeper, 
an'  he  had  always  been  used  to  good  livin',  so  he  sneaked 
home  ag'in.  One  o'  mother's  sisters  married  up  to  Ash  Hill, 
where  it  all  took  place;  that's  how  I  come  to  have  the 
particulars." 

"Then  how  did  he  come  to  find  his  Eliza  Wisby?"  I 
inquired.  "Do  tell  me  the  whole  story;  you've  got  mullein 
leaves  enough." 

"There's  all  yisterday's  at  home,  if  I  haven't,"  replied 
Mrs.  Goodsoe.  "The  way  he  come  a-courtin'  o'  Sister  Wisby 
was  this :  she  went  a-courtin'  o'  him. 

"There  was  a  spell  he  lived  to  home,  and  then  his  poo/ 


202    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

wife  died,  and  he  had  a  spirit  bride  in  good  earnest,  an'  the 
children  was  placed  about  with  his  folks  and  hers,  for  they 
was  both  out  o'  good  families;  and  I  don't  know  what  come 
over  him,  but  he  had  another  pious  fit  that  looked  for  all 
the  world  like  the  real  thing.  He  hadn't  no  family  cares,  and 
he  lived  with  his  brother's  folks,  and  turned  his  land  in  with 
theirs.  He  used  to  travel  to  every  meetin'  an'  conference 
that  was  within  reach  of  his  old  sorrel  hoss's  feeble  legs;  he 
j'ined  the  Christian  Baptists  that  was  just  in  their  early 
prime,  and  he  was  a  great  exhorter,  and  got  to  be  called 
deacon,  though  I  guess  he  wa'n't  deacon,  'less  it  was  for  a 
spare  hand  when  deacon  times  was  scercer'n  usual.  An'  one 
time  there  was  a  four-days'  protracted  meetin'  to  the  church 
in  the  lower  part  of  the  town.  'Twas  a  real  solemn  time; 
somethin'  more'n  usual  was  goin'  forward,  an*  they  collected 
from  the  whole  country  round.  Women  folks  liked  it,  an* 
the  men  too;  it  give  'em  a  change,  an'  they  was  quartered 
round  free,  same  as  conference  folks  now.  Some  on  'em,  for 
a  joke,  sent  Silas  Brimblecom  up  to  Lizy  Wisby's,  though 
she'd  give  out  she  couldn't  accommodate  nobody,  because  of 
expectin'  her  cousin's  folks.  Everybody  knew  'twas  a  lie; 
she  was  amazin'  close  considerin'  she  had  plenty  to  do  with. 
There  was  a  streak  that  wa'n't  just  right  somewheres  in  Lizy's 
wits,  I  always  thought.  She  was  very  kind  in  case  o'  sick 
ness,  I'll  say  that  for  her. 

"You  know  where  the  house  is,  over  there  on  what  they 
call  Windy  Hill?  There  the  deacon  went,  all  unsuspecting 
and  'stead  o'  Lizy's  resentin'  of  him  she  put  in  her  own  hoss, 
and  they  come  back  together  to  evenin'  meetin'.  She  was 
prominent  among  the  sect  herself,  an'  he  bawled  and  talked, 
and  she  bawled  and  talked,  an'  took  up  more'n  the  time 
allotted  in  the  exercises,  just  as  if  they  was  showin'  off  to 
each  what  they  was  able  to  do  at  expoundin'.  Everybody 
was  laughin'  at  'em  after  the  meetin'  broke  up,  and  that  next 
day  an'  the  next,  an'  all  through,  they  was  constant,  and 
seemed  to  be  havin'  a  beautiful  occasion.  Lizy  had  always 
give  out  she  scorned  the  men,  but  when  she  got  a  chance  at 
a  particular  one  'twas  altogether  different,  and  the  deacon 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY         203 

seemed  to  please  her  somehow  or  'nother,  and — There!  you 
don't  want  to  listen  to  this  old  stuff  that's  past  an'  gone?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  said  I. 

"I  run  on  like  a  clock  that's  onset  her  striking  hand," 
said  Mrs.  Goodsoe  mildly.  "Sometimes  my  kitchen  time 
piece  goes  on  half  the  forenoon,  and  I  says  to  myself  the  day 
before  yisterday  I  would  let  it  be  a  warnin',  and  keep  it  in 
mind  for  a  check  on  my  own  speech.  The  next  news  that 
was  heard  was  that  the  deacon  an'  Lizy — well,  opinions  dif 
fered  which  of  'em  had  spoke  first,  but  them  fools  settled 
it  before  the  protracted  meetin*  was  over,  and  give  away 
their  hearts  before  he  started  for  home.  They  considered 
'twould  be  wise,  though,  considerin'  their  short  acquaintance, 
to  take  one  another  on  trial  a  spell;  'twas  Lizy's  notion,  and 
she  asked  him  why  he  wouldn't  come  over  and  stop  with  her 
till  spring,  and  then,  if  both  continued  to  like,  they  could 
git  married  any  time  'twas  convenient.  Lizy,  she  come  and 
talked  it  over  with  mother,  and  mother  disliked  to  offend 
her,  but  she  spoke  pretty  plain;  and  Lizy  felt  hurt,  an' 
thought  they  was  showin'  excellent  judgment,  so  much  harm 
come  from  hasty  unions  and  folks  comin'  to  a  realizin'  sense 
of  each  other's  failin's  when  'twas  too  late. 

"So  one  day  our  folks  saw  Deacon  Brimfull  a-ridin'  by 
with  a  gre't  coopful  of  hens  in  the  back  o'  his  wagon,  and 
bundles  o'  stuff  tied  to  top  and  hitched  to  the  exes  under 
neath;  and  he  riz  a  hymn  just  as  he  passed  the  house,  and 
was  speedin'  the  old  sorrel  with  a  wilier  switch.  'Twas  most 
Thanksgivin'  time,  an'  sooner'n  she  expected  him.  New 
Year's  was  the  time  she  set;  but  he  thought  he'd  come  while 
the  roads  was  fit  for  wheels.  They  was  out  to  meetin'  to 
gether  Thanksgivin'  Day,  an'  that  used  to  be  a  gre't  season 
for  marryin';  so  the  young  folks  nudged  each  other,  and 
some  on  'em  ventured  to  speak  to  the  couple  as  they  come 
down  the  aisle.  Lizy  carried  it  off  real  well;  she  wa'n't 
afraid  o'  what  nobody  said  or  thought,  and  so  home  they 
went.  They'd  got  out  her  yaller  sleigh  and  her  hoss;  she 
never  would  ride  after  the  deacon's  poor  old  creatur,  and  I 
believe  it  died  long  o'  the  winter  from  stiffenin'  up. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.   Goodsoe,  emphatically,   after  we  had 


204    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

silently  considered  the  situation  for  a  short  space  of  time, 
"yes,  there  was  consider'ble  talk,  now  I  tell  you !  The  raskil 
boys  pestered  'em  just  about  to  death  for  a  while.  They  used 
to  collect  up  there  an'  rap  on  the  winders,  and  they'd  turn 
out  all  the  deacon's  hens  'long  at  nine  o'clock  o'  night,  and 
chase  'em  all  over  the  dingle ;  an'  one  night  they  even  lugged 
the  pig  right  out  o'  the  sty,  and  shoved  it  into  the  back 
entry,  an'  run  for  their  lives.  They'd  stuffed  its  mouth  full 
e'  something  so  it  couldn't  squeal  till  it  got  there.  There 
wa'n't  a  sign  o'  nobody  to  be  seen  when  Lizy  hasted  out  with 
the  light,  and  she  an'  the  deacon  had  to  persuade  the 
creatur  back  as  best  they  could;  'twas  a  cold  night,  and 
they  said  it  took  'em  till  towards  mornin'.  You  see  the 
deacon  was  just  the  kind  of  a  man  that  a  hog  wouldn't  budge 
for;  it  takes  a  masterful  man  to  deal  with  a  hog.  Well, 
there  was  no  end  to  the  works  nor  the  talk,  but  Lizy  left  'em 
pretty  much  alone.  She  did  'pear  kind  of  dignified  about  it, 
I  must  say!" 

"And  then,  were  they  married  in  the  spring?" 
"I  was  tryin'  to  remember  whether  it  was  just  before  Fasf 
Day  or  just  after,"  responded  my  friend,  with  a  careful  look 
at  the  sun,  which  was  nearer  the  west  than  either  of  us  had 
noticed.  "I  think  likely  'twas  along  in  the  last  o'  April, 
any  way  some  of  us  looked  out  o'  the  window  one  Monday 
mornin'  early,  and  says,  Tor  goodness'  sakel  Lizy's  sent 
the  deacon  home  again!'  His  old  sorrel  havin'  passed  away, 
he  was  ridin'  in  Ezry  Welsh's  hoss-cart,  with  his  hen-coop 
and  more  bundles  than  he  had  when  he  come,  and  looked  as 
meechin'  as  ever  you  see.  Ezry  was  drivin',  and  he  let  a 
glance  fly  swiftly  round  to  see  if  any  of  us  was  lookin'  out; 
an'  then  I  declare  if  he  didn't  have  the  malice  to  turn  right 
in  towards  the  barn,  where  he  see  my  oldest  brother,  Joshuay, 
an'  says  he  real  natural,  'Joshuay,  just  step  out  with  your 
wrench.  I  believe  I  hear  my  kingbolt  rattlin'  kind  o'  loose/ 
Brother,  he  went  out  an'  took  in  the  sitooation,  an'  the 
deacon  bowed  kind  of  stiff.  Joshuay  was  so  full  o'  laugh, 
and  Ezry  Welsh,  that  they  couldn't  look  one  another  in  the 
face.  There  wa'n't  nothing  ailed  the  kingbolt,  you  know, 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY         205 

an'  when  Josh  riz  up  he  says,  'Goin'  up  country  for  a  spell, 
Mr.  Brimblecom?' 

"  'I  be/  says  the  deacon,  lookin'  dreadful  mortified  and 
cast  down. 

"  'Ain't  things  turned  out  well  with  you  an'  Sister  Wisby?' 
says  Joshuay.  'You  had  ought  to  remember  that  the  woman 
is  the  weaker  vessel.' 

"  'Hang  her,  let  her  carry  less  sail,  then!'  the  deacon  bu'st 
out,  and  he  stood  right  up  an'  shook  his  fist  there  by  the 
hen-coop,  he  was  so  mad;  an'  Ezry's  hoss  was  a  young 
creatur,  an'  started  up  and  set  the  deacon  right  over  back 
wards  into  the  chips.  We  didn't  know  but  he'd  broke  his 
neck;  but  when  he  see  the  women  folks  runnin'  out  he 
jumped  up  quick  as  a  cat,  an'  clim  into  the  cart,  an'  off  they 
went.  Ezry  said  he  told  him  that  he  couldn't  git  along 
with  Lizy,  she  was  so  fractious  in  thundery  weather ;  if  there 
was  a  rumble  in  the  daytime  she  must  go  right  to  bed  an' 
screech,  and  'twas  night  she  must  git  right  up  an'  go  an' 
call  him  out  of  a  sound  sleep.  But  everybody  knew  he'd 
never  gone  home  unless  she'd  sent  him. 

"Somehow  they  made  it  up  ag'in,  him  an'  Lizy,  and  she 
had  him  back.  She's  been  countin'  all  along  on  not  havin' 
to  hire  nobidy  to  work  about  the  gardin'  an'  so  on,  an'  she 
said  she  wa'n't  goin'  to  let  him  have  a  whole  winter's  board 
for  nothin'.  So  the  old  hens  was  moved  back,  and  they  was 
married  right  off  fair  an'  square,  an'  I  don't  know  but  they 
got  along  well  as  most  folks.  He  brought  his  youngest  girl 
down  to  live  with  'em  after  a  while,  an'  she  was  a  real 
treasure  to  Lizy;  everybody  spoke  well  o'  Phcebe  Brimblecom. 
The  deacon  got  over  his  pious  fit,  and  there  was  consider'ble 
work  in  him  if  you  kept  right  after  him.  He  was  an  amazin' 
cider-drinker,  and  he  airnt  the  name  you  know  him  by  in 
his  latter  days.  Lizy  never  trusted  him  with  nothin',  but  she 
kep'  him  well.  She  left  everything  she  owned  to  Phcebe,  when 
she  died,  'cept  somethin'  to  satisfy  the  law.  There,  they're 
all  gone  now;  seems  to  me  sometimes,  when  I  get  thinkin',  as 
if  I'd  lived  a  thousand  years!" 

I  laughed,  but  I  found  Mrs.  Goodsoe's  thoughts  had  taken 
a  serious  turn. 


206    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"There,  I  come  by  some  old  graves  down  here  in  the  lower 
edge  of  the  pasture,"  she  said  as  we  rose  to  go.  "I  couldn't 
help  thinking  how  I  should  like  to  be  laid  right  out  in  the 
pasture  ground,  when  my  time  comes;  it  looked  sort  o'  com 
fortable,  and  I  have  ranged  these  slopes  so  many  summers. 
Seems  as  if  I  could  see  right  up  through  the  turf  and  tell 
when  the  weather  was  pleasant,  and  get  the  goodness  o'  the 
sweet  fern.  Now,  dear,  just  hand  me  my  apernful  o'  mul 
leins  out  o'  the  shade.  I  hope  you  won't  come  to  need  none 
this  winter,  but  I'll  dry  some  special  for  you." 

"I'm  going  by  the  road,"  said  I,  "or  else  by  the  path  across 
the  meadows,  so  I  will  walk  as  far  as  the  house  with  you. 
Aren't  you  pleased  with  my  company?"  for  she  demurred  at 
my  going  the  least  bit  out  of  the  way. 

So  we  strolled  toward  the  little  gray  house,  with  our 
plunder  of  mullein  leaves  slung  on  a  stick  which  we  car 
ried  between  us.  Of  course  I  went  in  to  make  a  call,  as  if 
I  had  not  seen  my  hostess  before;  she  is  the  last  maker  of 
muster-gingerbread,  and  before  I  came  away  I  was  kindly 
measured  for  a  pair  of  mittens. 

"You'll  be  sure  to  come  an'  see  them  two  peach-trees  after 
I  get  'em  well  growin'?"  Mrs.  Goodsoe  called  after  me  when 
I  had  said  good-by,  and  was  almost  out  of  hearing  down  the 
road. 


THE  REVOLT  OF  MOTHER  * 

BY  MARY  E.  WELKINS  FREEMAN 

FATHER!" 
"What  is  it?" 
"What  are  them  men  diggin*  over  there  in  the  field 
for?" 

There  was  a  sudden  dropping  and  enlarging  of  the  lower 
part  of  the  old  man's  face,  as  if  some  heavy  weight  had  set 
tled  therein;  he  shut  his  mouth  tight,  and  went  on  harness 
ing  the  great  bay  mare.  He  hustled  the  collar  on  to  her 
neck  with  a  jerk. 

"Father!" 

The  old  man  slapped  the  saddle  upon  the  mare's  back. 

"Look  here,  father,  I  want  to  know  what  them  men  are 
diggin'  over  in  the  field  for,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  know." 

"I  wish  you'd  go  into  the  house,  mother,  an'  'tend  to  your 
own  affairs,"  the  old  man  said  then.  He  ran  his  words 
together,  and  his  speech  was  almost  as  inarticulate  as  a 
growl. 

But  the  woman  understood ;  it  was  her  most  native  tongue. 
"I  ain't  goin'  into  the  house  till  you  tell  me  what  them  men 
are  doin'  over  there  in  the  field,"  said  she. 

Then  she  stood  waiting.  She  was  a  small  woman,  short 
and  straight-waisted  like  a  child  in  her  brown  cotton  gown. 
Her  forehead  was  mild  and  benevolent  between  the  smooth 
curves  of  gray  hair;  there  were  meek  downward  lines  about 
her  nose  and  mouth;  but  her  eyes,  fixed  upon  the  old  man, 
looked  as  if  the  meekness  had  been  the  result  of  her  own 
will,  never  of  the  will  of  another. 

They  were  in  the  barn,  standing  before  the  wide  open 

*From  "A  New  England  Nun  and  Other  Stories,"  by  Mary  E. 
Wilkins.  Copyright,  1891,  by  Harper  &  Brothers.  All  rights  re 
served.  By  permission  of  the  author. 

207 


208    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

doors.  The  spring  air,  full  of  the  smell  of  growing  grass 
and  unseen  blossoms,  came  in  their  faces.  The  deep  yard 
in  front  was  littered  with  farm  wagons  and  piles  of  wood; 
on  the  edges,  close  to  the  fence  and  the  house,  the  grass 
was  a  vivid  green,  and  there  were  some  dandelions. 

The  old  man  glanced  doggedly  at  his  wife  as  he  tightened 
the  last  buckles  on  the  harness.  She  looked  as  immovable 
to  him  as  one  of  the  rocks  in  his  pasture-land,  bound  to  the 
earth  with  generations  of  blackberry  vines.  He  slapped  the 
reins  over  the  horse,  and  started  forth  from  the  barn. 

"Father!"  said  she. 

The  old  man  pulled  up.     "What  is  it?" 

"I  want  to  know  what  them  men  are  diggin'  over  there  in 
that  field  for." 

"They're  diggin'  a  cellar,  I  s'pose,  if  you've  got  to  know." 

"A  cellar  for  what?" 

"A  barn." 

"A  barn?  You  ain't  goin'  to  build  a  barn  over  there 
where  we  was  goin'  to  have  a  house,  father?" 

The  old  man  said  not  another  word.  He  hurried  the 
horse  into  the  farm  wagon,  and  clattered  out  of  the  yard, 
jouncing  as  sturdily  on  his  seat  as  a  boy. 

The  woman  stood  a  moment  looking  after  him,  then  she 
went  out  of  the  barn  across  a  corner  of  the  yard  to  the 
house.  The  house,  standing  at  right  angles  with  the  great 
barn  and  a  long  reach  of  sheds  and  out-buildings,  was  in 
finitesimal  compared  with  them.  It  was  scarcely  as  com 
modious  for  people  as  the  little  boxes  under  the  barn  eaves 
were  for  doves. 

A  pretty  girl's  face,  pink  and  delicate  as  a  flower,  was 
looking  out  of  one  of  the  house  windows.  She  was  watch 
ing  three  men  who  were  digging  over  in  the  field  which 
bounded  the  yard  near  the  road  line.  She  turned  quietly 
when  the  woman  entered. 

"What  are  they  digging  for,  mother?"  said  she.  "Did  he 
tell  you?" 

"They're  diggin'  for — a  cellar  for  a  new  barn." 

"Oh,  mother,  he  ain't  going  to  build  another  barn?" 

"That's  what  he  says." 


THE  REVOLT  OF  MOTHER  209 

A  boy  stood  before  the  kitchen  glass  combing  his  hair. 
He  combed  slowly  and  painstakingly,  arranging  his  brown 
hair  in  a  smooth  hillock  over  his  forehead.  He  did  not 
seem  to  pay  any  attention  to  the  conversation. 

"Sammy,  did  you  know  father  was  going  to  build  a  new 
barn?"  asked  the  girl. 

The  boy  combed  assiduously. 

"Sammy!" 

He  turned,  and  showed  a  face  like  his  father's  under  his 
smooth  crest  of  hair.  "Yes,  I  s'pose  I  did,"  he  said,  re 
luctantly. 

"How  long  have  you  known  it?"  asked  his  mother. 

"  'Bout  three  months,  I  guess." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  of  it?" 

"Didn't  think  'twould  do  no  good." 

"I  don't  see  what  father  wants  another  barn  for,"  said 
the  girl,  in  her  sweet,  slow  voice.  She  turned  again  to  the 
window,  and  stared  out  at  the  digging  men  in  the  field.  Her 
tender,  sweet  face  was  full  of  a  gentle  distress.  Her  fore 
head  was  as  bald  and  innocent  as  a  baby's  with  the  light 
hair  strained  back  from  it  in  a  row  of  curl-papers.  She  was 
quite  large,  but  her  soft  curves  did  not  look  as  if  they  cov 
ered  muscles. 

Her  mother  looked  sternly  at  the  boy.  "Is  he  goin'  tq 
buy  more  cows?" 

The  boy  did  not  reply;  he  was  tying  his  shoes. 

"Sammy,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  if  he's  goin'  to  buy  more 
cows." 

"I  s'pose  he  is." 

"How  many?" 

"Four,  I  guess." 

His  mother  said  nothing  more.  She  went  into  the  pan 
try,  and  there  was  a  clatter  of  dishes.  The  boy  got  his  cap 
from  a  nail  behind  the  door,  took  an  old  arithmetic  from 
the  shelf,  and  started  for  school.  He  was  lightly  built,  but 
clumsy.  He  went  out  of  the  yard  with  a  curious  spring  in 
the  hips,  that  made  his  loose  home-made  jacket  tilt  up  in 
the  rear. 

The  girl  went  to  the  sink,  and  began  to  wash  the  dishes 


210    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

that  were  piled  up  there.  Her  mother  came  promptly  out 
of  the  pantry,  and  shoved  her  aside.  "You  wipe  'em,"  said 
she,  "I'll  wash.  There's  a  good  many  this  mornin'." 

The  mother  plunged  her  hands  vigorously  into  the  water, 
the  girl  wiped  the  plates  slowly  and  dreamily.  "Mother," 
said  she,  "don't  you  think  it's  too  bad  father's  going  to  build 
that  new  barn,  much  as  we  need  a  decent  house  to  live  in?" 

Her  mother  scrubbed  a  dish  fiercely.  "You  ain't  found 
out  yet  we're  women-folks,  Nanny  Penn,"  said  she.  "You 
ain't  seen  enough  of  men-folks  yet  to.  One  of  these  days 
you'll  find  it  out,  an*  then  you'll  know  that  we  know  only 
what  men-folks  think  we  do,  so  far  as  any  use  of  it  goes,  an' 
how  we'd  ought  to  reckon  men-folks  in  with  Providence,  an' 
not  complain  of  what  they  do  any  more  than  4  we  do  of  the 
weather." 

"I  don't  care;  I  don't  believe  George  is  anything  like 
that,  anyhow,"  said  Nanny.  Her  delicate  faced  flushed  pink, 
her  lips  pouted  softly,  as  if  she  were  going  to  cry. 

"You  wait  an'  see.  I  guess  George  Eastman  ain't  no 
better  than  other  men.  You  hadn't  ought  to  judge  father, 
though.  He  can't  help  it,  'cause  he  don't  look  at  things 
jest  the  way  we  do.  An'  we've  been  pretty  comfortable 
here,  after  all.  The  roof  don't  leak — ain't  never  but  once 
-. — that's  one  thing.  Father's  kept  it  shingled  right  up." 

"I  do  wish  we  had  a  parlor." 

"I  guess  it  won't  hurt  George  Eastman  any  to  come  to 
see  you  in  a  nice  clean  kitchen.  I  guess  a  good  many  girls 
don't  have  as  good  a  place  as  this.  Nobody's  ever  heard 
me  complain." 

"I  ain't  complained  either,  mother." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  you'd  better,  a  good  father  an'  a 
good  home  as  you've  got.  S'pose  your  father  made  you  go 
out  an'  work  for  your  livin'?  Lots  of  girls  have  to  that 
ain't  no  stronger  an'  better  able  to  than  you  be." 

Sarah  Penn  washed  the  frying-pan  with  a  conclusive  air. 
She  scrubbed  the  outside  of  it  as  faithfully  as  the  inside. 
She  was  a  masterly  keeper  of  her  box  of  a  house.  Her  one 
living-room  never  seemed  to  have  in  it  any  of  the  dust 
which  the  friction  of  life  with  inanimate  matter  produces. 


THE  REVOLT  OF  MOTHER  211 

She  swept,  and  there  seemed  to  be  no  dirt  to  go  before  the 
broom;  she  cleaned,  and  one  could  see  no  difference.  She 
was  like  an  artist  so  perfect  that  he  has  apparently  no  art. 
To-day  she  got  out  a  mixing  bowl  and  a  board,  and  rolled 
some  pies,  and  there  was  no  more  flour  upon  her  than  upon 
her  daughter  who  was  doing  finer  work.  Nanny  was  to  be 
married  in  the  fall,  and  she  was  sewing  on  some  white  cam 
bric  and  embroidery.  She  sewed  industriously  while  her 
mother  cooked ;  her  soft  milk-white  hands  and  wrists  showed 
whiter  than  her  delicate  work. 

"We  must  have  the  stove  moved  out  in  the  shed  before 
long,"  said  Mrs.  Penn.  "Talk  about  not  havin'  things,  it's 
been  a  real  blessin'  to  be  able  to  put  a  stove  up  in  that  shed 
in  hot  weather.  Father  did  one  good  thing  when  he  fixed 
that  stove-pipe  out  there." 

Sarah  Penn's  face  as  she  rolled  her  pies  had  that  expres 
sion  of  meek  vigor  which  might  Eave  characterized  one  of 
the  New  Testament  saints.  She  was  making  mince-pies. 
Her  husband,  Adoniram  Penn,  liked  them  better  than  any 
other  kind.  She  baked  twice  a  week.  Andoniram  often 
liked  a  piece  of  pie  between  meals.  She  hurried  this  morn 
ing.  It  had  been  later  than  usual  when  she  began,  and  she 
wanted  to  have  a  pie  baked  for  dinner.  However  deep  a 
resentment  she  might  be  forced  to  hold  against  her  hus 
band,  she  would  never  fail  in  sedulous  attention  to  his 
wants. 

Nobility  of  chanj££ex  manifests  itself  at  loop-holes  when 
it 'is  not  provideoTwith  large  doors.  Sarah  Penn's  showed 
itself  to^dayin  flaky  dishes  of  pastry.  So  she  made  the 
pies  faithfully,  While"  across  the  table  she  could  see,  when 
she  glanced  up  from  her  work,  the  sight  that  rankled  in  her 
patient  and  steadfast  soul — the  digging  of  the  cellar  of  the 
new  barn  in  the  place  where  Adoniram  forty  years  ago  had  v' 
promised  her  their  new  house  shoulcl  stand. 

The  pies  were  done  for  dinner.  Adoniram  and  Sammy 
were  home  a  few  minutes  after  twelve  o'clock.  The  dinner 
was  eaten  with  serious  haste.  There  was  never  much  con 
versation  at  the  table  in  the  Penn  family.  Adoniram  asked 


212    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

a  blessing,  and  they  ate  promptly,  then  rose  up  and  went 
about  their  work. 

Sammy  went  back  to  school,  taking  soft  sly  lopes  out  of 
the  yard  like  a  rabbit.  He  wanted  a  game  of  marbles  be 
fore  school,  and  feared  his  father  would  give  him  some 
chores  to  do.  Adoniram  hastened  to  the  door  and  called 
after  him,  but  he  was  out  of  sight. 

"I  don't  see  what  you  let  him  go  for,  mother,"  said  he. 
"I  wanted  him  to  help  me  unload  that  wood." 

Adoniram  went  to  work  out  in  the  yard  unloading  wood 
from  the  wagon.  Sarah  put  away  the  dinner  dishes,  while 
Nanny  took  down  her  curl  papers  and  changed  her  dress. 
She  was  going  down  to  the  store  to  buy  some  more  em 
broidery  and  thread. 

When  Nanny  was  gone,  Mrs.  Penn  went  to  the  door. 
"Father!"  she  called. 

"Well,  what  it  it!" 

"I  want  to  see  you  jest  a  minute,  father.*' 

"I  can't  leave  this  wood  nohow.  I've  got  to  git  it  un 
loaded  an*  go  for  a  load  of  gravel  afore  two  o'clock.  Sammy 
had  ought  to  helped  me.  You  hadn't  ought  to  let  him  go 
to  school  so  early." 

"I  want  to  see  you  jest  a  minute." 

"I  tell  ye  I  can't,  nohow,  mother." 

"Father,  you  come  here."  Sarah  Penn  stood  in  the  door 
like  a  queen;  she  held  her  head  as  if  it  bore  a  crown;  there 
was  that  patience  which  makes  authority  royal  in  her  voice. 
Adoniram  went. 


Mrs.  Penn  led  the  way  into  the  kitchen,  and  pointed  to  a 
chair.  "Sit  down,  father,"  said  she,  "I've  got  somethin'  I 
want  to  say  to  you." 

He  sat  down  heavily;  his  face  was  quite  stolid,  but  he 
looked  at  her  with  restive  eyes.  "Well,  what  is  it,  mother?" 

"I  want  to  know  what  you're  buildin'  that  new  barn  for, 
father?" 

"I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  say  about  it." 

"It  can't  be  you  think  you  need  another  barn?" 


THE  REVOLT  OF  MOTHER  213 

"I  tell  ye  I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  say  about  it,  mother;  an'  I 
ain't  goin'  to  say  nothin'." 

"Be  you  goin'  to  buy  more  cows?" 

Adoniram  did  not  reply;  he  shut  his  mouth  tight. 

"I  know  you  be,  as  well  as  I  want  to.  Now,  father,  look 
here" — Sarah  Penn  had  not  sat  down;  she  stood  before  her 
husband  in  the  humble  fashion  of  a  Scripture  woman — "I'm 
goin'  to  talk  real  plain  to  you;  I  never  have  sense  I  married 
you,  but  I'm  gcin'  to  now.  I  ain't  never  complained,  an* 
I  ain't  goin'  to  complain  now,  but  I'm  goin'  to  talk  plain. 
You  see  this  room  here,  father;  you  look  at  it  well.  You 
see  there  ain't  no  carpet  on  the  floor,  an'  you  see  the  paper 
is  all  dirty,  an'  droppin'  off  the  wall.  We  ain't  had  no  new 
paper  on  it  for  ten  year,  an'  then  I  put  it  on  myself,  an'  it 
didn't  cost  but  ninepence  a  roll.  You  see  this  room,  father; 
it's  all  the  one  I've  had  to  work  in  an'  eat  in  an'  sit  in  sence 
we  was  married.  There  ain't  another  woman  in  the  whole 
town  whose  husband  ain't  got  half  the  means  you  have  but 
what's  got  better.  It's  all  the  room  Nanny's  got  to  have  her 
company  in ;  an'  there  ain't  one  of  her  mates  but  what's  got 
better,  an'  their  fathers  not  so  able  as  hers  is.  It's  all  the 
room  she'll  have  to  be  married  in.  What  would  you  have 
thought,  father,  if  we  had  had  our  weddin'  in  a  room  no 
better  than  this?  I  was  married  in  my  mother's  parlor,  with 
a  carpet  on  the  floor,  an'  stuffed  furniture,  an'  a  mahogany 
card-table.  An'  this  is  all  the  room  my  daughter  will  have 
to  be  married  in.  Look  here,  father!" 

Sarah  Penn  went  across  the  room  as  though  it  were  a 
tragic  stage.  She  flung  open  a  door  and  disclosed  a  tiny 
bed  room,  only  large  enough  for  a  bed  and  bureau,  with  a 
path  between.  "There,  father,"  said  she — "there's  all  the 
room  I've  had  to  sleep  in  forty  years.  All  my  children  were 
born  there — the  two  that  died,  an'  the  two  that's  livin'.  I 
was  sick  with  a  fever  there." 

She  stepped  to  another  door  and  opened  it.  It  led  into  the 
small,  ill-lighted  pantry.  "Here,"  said  she,  "is  all  the  but 
tery  I've  got — every  place  I've  got  for  my  dishes,  to  set  away 
my  victuals  in,  an'  to  keep  my  milk-pans  in.  Father,  I've 
been  takin'  care  of  the  milk  of  six  cows  in  this  place,  an* 


214    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

now  you're  goin'  to  build  a  new  barn,  an*  keep  more  cows, 
an'  give  me  more  to  do  in  it." 

She  threw  open  another  door.  A  narrow  crooked  flight 
of  stairs  wound  upward  from  it.  "There,  father,"  said  she, 
"I  want  you  to  look  at  the  stairs  that  go  up  to  them  two 
unfinished  chambers  that  are  all  the  places  our  son  an* 
daughter  have  had  to  sleep  in  all  their  lives.  There  ain't  a 
prettier  girl  in  town  nor  a  more  ladylike  one  than  Nanny, 
an'  that's  the  place  she  has  to  sleep  in.  It  ain't  so  good  as 
your  horse's  stall;  it  ain't  so  warm  an'  tight." 

Sarah  Penn  went  back  and  stood  before  her  husband. 
"Now,  father,"  said  she,  "I  want  to  know  if  you  think 
you're  doin'  right  an'  accordin'  to  what  you  profess.  Here, 
when  we  was  married,  forty  year  ago,  you  promised  me  faith 
ful  that  we  should  have  a  new  house  built  in  that  lot  over  in 
the  field  before  the  year  was  out.  You  said  you  had  money 
enough,  an'  you  wouldn't  ask  me  to  live  in  no  such  place  as 
this.  It  is  forty  year  now,  an'  you've  been  makin'  more 
money,  an'  I've  been  savin'  of  it  for  you  ever  since,  an  you 
ain't  built  no  house  yet.  You've  built  sheds  an'  cow-houses 
an'  one  new  barn,  an'  now  you're  goin'  to  build  another. 
Father,  I  want  to  know  if  you  think  it's  right..  You're 
lodgin'  your  dumb  beasts  better  than  you  are  your  own  flesh 
an'  blood.  I  want  to  know  if  you  think  it's  right." 

"I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  say." 

"You  can't  say  nothin'  without  ownin'  it  ain't  right,  father. 
An*  there's  another  thing — I  ain't  complained;  I've  got  along 
forty  year,  an'  I  s'pose  I  should  forty  more,  if  it  wasn't  for 
that — if  we  don't  have  another  house.  !w  Nanny  she  can't  live 
with  us  after  she's  married.  She'll  have  to  go  somewhere 
else  to  live  away  from  us,  an'  it  don't  seem  as  if  I  could 
have  it  so,  noways,  father.  She  wasn't  ever  strong.  She's 
got  considerable  color,  but  there  wasn't  never  any  backbone  to 
her.  I've  always  took  the  heft  of  everything  off  her,  an'  she 
ain't  fit  to  keep  house  an'  do  everything  herself.  She'll  be 
all  worn  out  inside  of  a  year.  Think  of  her  doin'  all  the 
washin'  an'  ironin'  an'  bakin'  with  them  soft  white  hands  an' 
arms,  an'  sweepin'!  I  can't  have  it  so,  noways,  father." 

Mrs.  Penn's  face  was  burning;  her  mild  eyes  gleamed- 


THE  REVOLT  OF  MOTHER  215 

She  had  pleaded  her  little  cause  like  a  Webster;  she  had 
ranged  from  severity  to  pathos;  but  her  opponent  employed 
that  obstinate  silence  which  makes  eloquence  futile  with 
mocking  echoes.  Adoniram  arose  clumsily. 

"Father,  ain't  you  got  nothin'  to  say?"  said  Mrs.  Perm. 

"I've  got  to  go  off  after  that  load  of  gravel.  I  can't  stan' 
here  talkin'  all  day." 

"Father,  won't  you  think  it  over,  an*  have  a  house  built 
there  instead  of  a  barn?" 

"I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  say." 

Adoniram  shuffled  out.  Mrs.  Penn  went  into  her  bed 
room.  When  she  came  out,  her  eyes  were  red.  She  had  a 
roll  of  unbleached  cotton  cloth.  She  spread  it  out  on  the 
kitchen  table,  and  began  cutting  out  some  shirts  for  her  hus 
band.  The  men  over  in  the  field  had  a  team  to  help  them 
this  afternoon;  she  could  hear  their  halloos.  She  had  a 
scanty  pattern  for  the  shirts;  she  had  to  plan  and  piece 
the  sleeves. 

Nanny  came  home  with  her  embroidery,  and  sat  down 
with  her  needlework.  She  had  taken  down  her  curl-papers, 
and  there  was  a  soft  roll  of  fair  hair  like  an  aureole  over  her 
forehead;  her  face  was  as  delicately  fine  and  clear  as  porce 
lain.  Suddenly  she  looked  up,  and  the  tender  red  flamed 
all  over  her  face  and  neck.  "Mother,"  said  she. 

"What  say?" 

"I've  been  thinking — I  don't  see  how  we're  goin'  to  have 
any — wedding  in  this  room.  I'd  be  ashamed  to  have  his 
folks  come  if  we  didn't  have  anybody  else." 

"Mebbe  we  can  have  some  new  paper  before  then;  I  can 
put  it  on.  I  guess  you  won't  have  no  call  to  be  ashamed  of 
your  belongin's." 

"We  might  have  the  wedding  in  the  new  barn,"  said 
Nanny,  with  gentle  pettishness.  "Why,  mother,  what  makes 
you  look  so?" 

Mrs.  Penn  had  started,  and  was  staring  at  her  with  a  curi 
ous  expression.  She  turned  again  to  her  work,  and  spread 
out  a  pattern  carefully  on  the  cloth.  "Nothin',"  said  she. 

Presently  Adoniram  clattered  out  of  the  yard  in  his  two- 
wheeled  dump  cart,  standing  as  proudly  upright  as  a  Roman 


,  I 

216    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

charioteer.     Mrs.  Penn  opened  the  door  and  stood  there  a 
minute  looking  out;  the  halloos  of  the  men  sounded  louder. 

It  seemed  to  her  all  through  the  spring  months  that  she 
heard  nothing  but  the  halloos  and  the  noises  of  saws  and 
hammers.  The  new  barn  grew  fast.  It  was  a  fine  edifice 
for  this  little  village.  Men  came  on  pleasant  Sundays,  in 
their  meeting  suits  and  clean  shirt  bosoms,  and  stood  around 
it  admiringly.  Mrs.  Penn  did  not  speak  of  it,  and  Adoni- 
ram  did  not  mention  it  to  her,  although  sometimes,  upon  a 
return  from  inspecting  it,  he  bore  himself  with  injured 
dignity. 

"It's  a  strange  thing  how  your  mother  feels  about  the  new 
barn,"  he  said,  confidentially,  to  Sammy  one  day. 

Sammy  only  grunted  after  an  odd  fashion  for  a  boy;  he 
had  learned  it  from  his  father. 

The  barn  was  all  completed  ready  for  use  by  the  third 
__  week  in  July.  Adoniram  had  planned  to  move  his  stock 
in  on  Wednesday;  on  Tuesday  he  received  a  letter  which 
changed  his  plans.  He  came  in  with  it  early  in  the  morning.  \ 
"Sammy's  been  to  the  post-office,"  said  he,  "an'  I've  got  a 
letter  from  Hiram."  Hiram  was  Mrs.  Penn's  brother,  who 
lived  in  Vermont. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Penn,  "what  does  he  say  about  the 
folks?" 

"I  guess  they're  all  right.  He  says  he  thinks  if  I  come 
up  country  right  off  there's  a  chance  to  buy  jest  the  kind  of 
a  horse  I  want."  He  stared  reflectively  out  of  the  window  at 
the  new  barn. 

Mrs.  Penn  was  making  pies.  She  went  on  clapping  the 
rolling-pin  into  the  crust,  although  she  was  very  pale,  and 
her  heart  beat  loudly. 

"I  dun'  know  but  what  I'd  better  go,"  said  Adoniram. ' 
"I  hate  to  go  off  jest  now,  right  in  the  midst  of  hayin',  but 
the  ten-acre  lot's  cut,  an'  I  guess  Rufus  an'  the  others  can  git 
along  without  me  three  or  four  days.  I  can't  get  a  horse 
round  here  to  suit  me,  nohow,  an'  I've  got  to  have  another 
for  all  that  wood-haulin'  in  the  fall.  I  told  Hiram  to  watch 
out,  an'  if  he  got  wind  of  a  good  horse  to  let  me  know.  I 
guess  I'd  better  go." 


THE  REVOLT  OF  MOTHER  217 

"I'll  get  out  your  clean  chirt  an'  collar,"  said  Mrs.  Penn 
calmly. 

She  laid  out  Adoniram's  Sunday  suit  and  his  clean  clothes 
on  the  bed  in  the  little  bedroom.  She  got  his  shaving-water 
and  razor  ready.  At  last  she  buttoned  on  his  collar  and 
fastened  his  black  cravat. 

Adoniram  never  wore  his  collar  and  cravat  except  on  ex 
tra  occasions.  He  held  his  head  high,  with  a  rasped  dignity. 
When  he  was  all  ready,  with  his  coat  and  hat  brushed,  and 
a  lunch  of  pie  and  cheese  in  a  paper  bag,  he  hesitated  on  the 
threshold  of  the  door.  He  looked  at  his  wife,  and  his  man 
ner  was  definitely  apologetic.  "//  them  cows  come  to-day, 
Sammy  can  drive  'em  into  the  new  barn,"  said  he;  "an* 
when  they  bring  the  hay  up,  they  can  pitch  it  in  there." 

"Well,"  replied  Mrs.  Penn. 

Adoniram  set  his  shaven  face  ahead  and  started.  When 
he  had  cleared  the  door- step,  he  turned  and  looked  back 
with  a  kind  of  nervous  solemnity.  "I  shall  be  back  by 
Saturday  if  nothin'  happens,"  said  he. 

"Do  be  careful,  father,"  returned  his  wife. 

She  stood  in  the  door  with  Nanny  at  her  elbow  and 
watched  him  out  of  sight.  Her  eyes  had  a  strange,  doubt 
ful  expression  in  them ;  her  peaceful  forehead  was  contracted. 
She  went  in,  and  about  her  baking  again.  Nanny  sat  sewing. 
Her  wedding-day  was  drawing  nearer,  and  she  was  getting 
pale  and  thin  with  her  steady  sewing.  Her  mother  kept 
glancing  at  her. 

"Have  you  got  that  pain  in  your  side  this  mornin'?"  she 
asked. 

"A  little." 

Mrs.  Perm's  face,  as  she  worked,  changed,  her  perplexed 
forehead  smoothed,  her  eyes  were  steady,  her  lips  firmly  set. 
She  formed  a  maxim  for  herself,  although  incoherently  with 
her  unlettered  thoughts.  "Unsolicited  opportunities  are  the 
guide-posts  of  the  Lord  to  the  new  roads  of  life,"  she  re 
peated  in  effect,  and  she  made  up  her  mind  to  her  course  of 
action. 

"S'posin'  I  had  wrote  to  Hiram,"  she  muttered  once,  when 
she  was  in  the  pantry — "s'posin'  I  had  wrote,  an'  asked  him 


218    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

if  he  knew  of  any  horse?  But  I  didn't,  an'  father's  goin' 
wan't  none  of  my  doin'.  It  looks  like  a  providence."  Her 
voice  rang  out  quite  loud  at  the  last. 

"What  you  talkin'  about,  mother?"  called  Nanny. 

"NothinV 

Mrs.  Penn  hurried  her  baking ;  at  eleven  o'clock  it  was  all 
done.  The  load  of  hay  from  the  west  field  came  slowly 
down  the  cart  track,  and  drew  up  at  the  new  barn.  Mrs. 
Penn  ran  out.  "Stop!"  she  screamed,  "stop!" 

The  men  stopped  and  looked ;  Sammy  upreared  from  the 
top  of  the  load,  and  stared  at  his  mother. 

"Stop!"  she  cried  out  again.  "Don't  you  put  the  hay  in 
that  barn;  put  it  in  the  old  one." 

"Why,  he  said  to  put  it  in  here,"  returned  one  of  the  hay 
makers,  wonderingly.  He  was  a  young  man,  a  neighbor's 
son,  whom  Adoniram  hired  by  the  year  to  help  on  the  farm. 

"Don't  you  put  the  hay  in  the  new  barn;  there's  room 
enough  in  the  old  one,  ain't  there?"  said  Mrs.  Penn. 

"Room  enough,"  returned  the  hired  man,  in  his  thick, 
rustic  tones.  "Didn't  need  the  new  barn,  nohow,  far  as 
room's  concerned.  Well,  I  s'pose  he  changed  his  mind." 
He  took  hold  of  the  horses'  bridles. 

Mrs.  Penn  went  back  to  the  house.  Soon  the  kitchen 
windows  were  darkened,  and  a  fragrance  like  warm  honey 
came  into  the  room. 

Nanny  laid  down  her  work.  "I  thought  father  wanted 
them  to  put  the  hay  into  the  new  barn?"  she  said,  wonder 
ingly. 

"It's  all  right,"  replied  her  mother. 

Sammy  slid,  down  from  the  load  of  hay,  and  came  in  to 
see  if  dinner  was  ready. 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  get  a  regular  dinner  to-day,  as  long  as 
father's  gone,"  said  his  mother.  "I've  let  the  fire  go  out. 
You  can  have  some  bread  an'  milk  an'  pie.  I  thought  we 
could  get  along."  She  set  out  some  bowls  of  milk,  some 
bread,  and  a  pie  on  the  kitchen  table.  "You'd  better  eat 
your  dinner  now,"  said  she.  "You  might  jest  as  well  get 
through  with  it.  I  want  you  to  help  me  afterwards." 

Nanny   and   Sammy  .stared    at   each   other.     There   was 


THE  REVOLT  OF  MOTHER  219 

something  strange  in  their  mother's  manner.  Mrs.  Penn  did 
not  eat  anything  herself.  She  went  into  the  pantry,  and 
they  heard  her  moving  dishes  while  they  ate.  Presently  she 
came  out  with  a  pile  of  plates.  She  got  the  clothes-basket 
out  of  the  shed,  and  packed  them  in  it.  Nanny  and  Sammy 
watched.  She  brought  out  cups  and  saucers,  and  put  them 
in  with  the  plates. 

"What  you  goin'  to  do,  mother?"  inquired  Nanny,  in  a 
timid  voice.  A  sense  of  something  unusual  made  her  trem 
ble,  as  if  it  were  a  ghost.  Sammy  rolled  his  eyes  over  his 
pie. 

"You'll  see  what  I'm  goin'  to  do,"  replied  Mrs.  Penn. 
"If  you're  through,  Nanny,  I  want  you  to  go  up-stairs  an* 
pack  up  your  things;  an'  I  want  you,  Sammy,  to  help  me 
take  down  the  bed  in  the  bedroom." 

"Oh,  mother,  what  for?"  gasped  Nanny. 

"You'll  see." 

During  the  next  few  hours  a  feat  was  performed  by  this 
simple,  pious  New  England  mother  which  was  equal  in  its 
way  to  Wolfe's  storming  of  the  Heights  of  Abraham.  It 
took  no  more  genius  and  audacity  of  bravery  for  Wolfe  to 
cheer  his  wondering  soldiers  up  those  steep  precipices,  under 
the  sleeping  eyes  of  the  enemy,  than  for  Sarah  Penn,  at  the 
head  of  her  children,  to  move  all  their  little  household  goods 
into  the  new  barn  while  her  husband  was  away. 

Nanny  and  Sammy  followed  their  mother's  instructions 
without  a  murmur;  indeed,  they  were  overawed.  There  is 
a  certain  uncanny  and  superhuman  quality  about  all  such 
purely  original  undertakings  as  their  mother's  was  to  them. 
Nanny  went  back  and  forth  with  her  light  load,  and  Sam 
my  tugged  with  sober  energy. 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  little  house  in  which 
the  Penns  had  lived  for  forty  years  had  emptied  itself  into 
the  new  barn. 

Every  builder  builds  somewhat  for  unknown  purposes,  and 
is  in  a  measure  a  prophet.  The  architect  of  Adoniram 
Penn's  barn,  while  he  designed  it  for  the  comfort  of  four- 
footed  animals,  had  planned  better  than  he  knew  for  the 
comfort  of  humans.  Sarah  Penn  saw  at  a  glance  its  possi- 


220    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

bilities.  Those  great  box-stalls,  with  quilts  hung  before 
them,  would  make  better  bedrooms  than  the  one  she  had  occu 
pied  for  forty  years,  and  there  was  a  tight  carriage-room. 
The  harness-room,  with  its  chimney  and  shelves,  would  make 
a  kitchen  of  her  dreams.  The  great  middle  space  would 
make  a  parlor,  by-and-by,  fit  for  a  palace.  Up  stairs  there 
was  as  much  room  as  down.  With  partitions  and  windows, 
what  a  house  would  there  be!  Sarah  looked  at  the  row  of 
stanchions  before  the  allotted  space  for  cows,  and  reflected 
that  she  would  have  her  front  entry  there. 

At  six  o'clock  the  stove  was  up  in  the  harness  room,  the 
kettle  was  boiling,  and  the  table  set  for  tea.  It  looked 
almost  as  home-like  as  the  abandoned  house  across  the  yard 
had  ever  done.  The  young  hired  man  uailked,  and  Sarah 
directed  him  calmly  to  bring  the  milk  to  the  new  barn.  He 
•  came  gaping,  dropping  little  blots  of  foam  from  the  brim- 
<mmg  pails  on  the  grass.  Before  the  next  morning  he  had 
/spread  the  story  of  Adoniram  Penri's  wife  moving  into  the 
-  new  barn  all  over  the  little  village.  Men  assembled  in  the 
store  and  talked  it  over,  women  with  shawls  over  their  heads 
\  scuttled  into  each  other's  houses  before  their  work  was  done. 
Any  deviation  from  the  ordinary  course  of  life  in  this  quiet 
town  was  enough  to  stop  all  progress  in  it.  Everybody 
paused  to  look  at  the  staid,  independent  figure  on  the  side 
track.  There  was  a  difference  of  opinion  with  regard  to 
her.  Some  held  her  to  be  insane;  some,  of  a  lawless  and  re 
bellious  spirit. 

Friday  the  minister  went  to  see  her.  It  was  in  the  fore 
noon,  and  she  was  at  the  barn  door  shelling  peas  for  dinner. 
She  looked  up  and  returned  his  salutation  with  dignity,  then 
she  went  on  with  her  work.  She  did  not  invite  him  in.  The 
saintly  expression  of  her  face  remained  fixed,  but  there  was 
an  angry  flush  over  it. 

The  minister  stood  awkwardly  before  her,  and  talked. 
She  handled  the  peas  as  if  they  were  bullets.  At  last  she 
looked  up,  and  her  eyes  showed  the  spirit  that  her  meek  front 
had  covered  for  a  lifetime. 

"There  ain't  no  use  talkin',  Mr.  Hersey,"  said  she.  "I've 
thought  it  all  over  an'  over,  an'  I  believe  I'm  doin'  what's 


THE  REVOLT  OF  MOTHER  221 

right.  I've  made  it  the  subject  of  prayer,  an'  it's  betwixt 
me  an'  the  Lord  an'  Adoniram.  There  ain't  no  call  for  no 
body  else  to  worry  about  it." 

"Well,  of  course,  if  you  have  brought  it  to  the  Lord  in 
prayer,  and  feel  satisfied  that  you  are  doing  right,  Mrs. 
Penn,"  said  the  minister,  helplessly.  His  thin  gray-bearded 
face  was  pathetic.  He  was  a  sickly  man;  his  youthful  confi 
dence  had  cooled;  he  had  to  scourge  himself  up  to  some  of 
his  pastoral  duties  as  relentlessly  as  a  Catholic  ascetic,  and 
then  he  was  prostrated  by  the  smart. 

"I  think  it's  right  jest  as  much  as  I  think  it  was  right  for 
our  forefathers  to  come  over  from  the  old  country  'cause  they 
didn't  have  what  belonged  to  'em,"  said  Mrs.  Penn.  She 
arose.  The  barn  threshold  might  have  been  Plymouth  Rock 
from  her  bearing.  "I  don't  doubt  you  mean  well,  Mr.  Her- 
sey,"  said  she,  "but  there  are  things  people  hadn't  ought  to 
interfere  with.  I've  been  a  member  of  the  church  for  over 
forty  years.  I've  got  my  own  mind  an'  my  own  feet,  an* 
I'm  goin'  to  think  my  own  thoughts  an'  go  my  own  way,  an* 
nobody  but  the  Lord  is  goin'  to  dictate  to  me  unless  I've  a 
mind  to  have  him.  Won't  you  come  in  an'  set  down  ?  How 
is  Mrs.  Hersey?" 

"She  is  well,  I  thank  you,"  replied  the  minister.  He 
added  some  more  perplexed  apologetic  remarks;  then  he 
retreated. 

He  could  expouna  the  intricacies  of  every  character  study 
in  the  Scriptures,  he  was  competent  to  grasp  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers  and  all  historical  innovators,  but  Sarah  Penn  was 
beyond  him.  He  could  deal  with  primal  cases,  but  parallel 
ones  worsted  him.  But,  after  all,  although  it  was  aside 
from  his  province,  he  wondered  more  how  Adoniram  Penn 
would  deal  with  his  wife  than  how  the  Lord  would.  Every 
body  shared  the  wonder.  When  Adoniram's  four  new  cows 
arrived,  Sarah  ordered  three  to  be  put  in  the  old  barn,  the 
other  in  the  house  shed  where  the  cooking-stove  had  stood. 
That  added  to  the  excitement.  It  was  whispered  that  all 
four  cows  were  domiciled  in  the  house. 

Towards  sunset  on  Saturday,  when  Adoniram  was  expected 
home,  there  was  a  knot  of  men  in  the  road  near  the  new 


222    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

barn.  The  hired  man  had  milked,  but  he  still  hung  around 
the  premises.  Sarah  Penn  had  supper  all  ready.  There 
were  brown-bread  and  baked  beans  and  a  custard  pie;  it  was 
the  supper  that  Adoniram  loved  on  a  Saturday  night.  She 
had  on  a  clean  calico,  and  she  bore  herself  imperturbably. 
Nanny  and  Sammy  kept  close  at  her  heels.  Their  eyes 
were  large,  and  Nanny  was  full  of  nervous  tremors.  Still 
there  was  to  them  more  pleasant  excitement  than  anything 
else.  An  inborn  confidence  in  their  mother  over  their  father 
asserted  itself. 

Sammy  looked  out  of  the  harness-room  window.  "There 
he  is,"  he  announced,  in  an  awed  whisper.  He  and  Nanny 
peeped  around  the  casing.  Mrs.  Penn  kept  on  about  her 
work.  The  children  watched  Adoniram  leave  the  new  horse 
standing  in  the  drive  while  he  went  to  the  house  door.  It 
was  fastened.  Then  he  went  around  to  the  shed.  That 
door  was  seldom  locked,  even  when  the  family  was  away. 
The  thought  how  her  father  would  be  confronted  by  the  cow 
flashed  upon  Nanny.  There  was  a  hysterical  sob  in  her 
throat.  Adoniram  emerged  from  the  shed  and  stood  looking 
about  in  a  dazed  fashion.  His  lips  moved;  he  was  saying 
something,  but  they  could  not  hear  what  it  was.  The  hired 
man  was  peeping  around  a  corner  of  the  old  barn,  but  nobody 
saw  him. 

Adoniram  took  the  new  horse  by  the  bridle  and  led  him 
across  the  yard  to  the  new  barn.  Nanny  and  Sammy  slunk 
close  to  their  mother.  The  barn  doors,  rolled  back,  and 
there  stood  Adoniram,  with  the  long  mild  face  of  the  great 
Canadian  farm  horse  looking  over  his  shoulder. 

Nanny  kept  behind  her  mother,  but  Sammy  stepped  sud 
denly  forward,  and  stood  in  front  of  her. 

Adoniram  stared  at  the  group.  "What  on  airth  you  all 
down  here  for?"  said  he.  "What's  the  matter  over  to  the 
house?" 

"We've  come  here  to  live,  father,"  said  Sammy.  His  shrill 
voice  quavered  out  bravely. 

"What" — Adoniram  sniffed — "what  is  it  smells  like  cook- 
in'?"  said  he.  He  stepped  forward  and  looked  in  the  open 
door  of  the  harness-room.  Then  he  turned  to  his  wife.  His 


THE  REVOLT  OF  MOTHER  223 

old  bristling  face  was  pale  and  frightened.  "What  on  airth 
does  this  mean,  mother?"  he  gasped. 

"You  come  in  here,  father,"  said  Sarah.  She  led  the  way 
into  the  harness-room  and  shut  the  door.  "Now,  father," 
said  she,  "you  needn't  be  scared.  I  ain't  crazy.  There  ain't 
nothin'  to  be  upset  over.  But  weVe  come  here  to  live,  an* 
we're  goin'  to  live  here.  WeVe  got  jest  as  good  a  right  here 
as  new  horses  an'  cows.  The  house  wasn't  fit  for  us  to  live 
in  any  longer,  an'  I  made  up  my  mind  I  wa'n't  goin'  to  stay 
there.  I've  done  my  duty  by  you  forty  year,  an'  I'm  goin* 
to  do  it  now ;  but  I'm  goin'  to  live  here.  You've  got  to  put  in 
some  windows  and  partitions;  an  you'll  have  to  buy  some 
furniture." 

"Why,  mother  1"  the  old  man  gasped. 

"You'd  better  take  your  coat  off  an'  get  washefctiiere's 
the  wash  basin — an'  then  we'll  have  supper." 

"Why,  mother!" 

Sammy  went  past  the  window,  leading  the  new  horse  to 
the  old  barn.  The  old  man  saw  him,  and  shook  his  head 
speechlessly.  He  tried  to  take  off  his  coat,  but  his  arms 
seemed  to  lack  the  power.  His  wife  helped  him.  She 
poured  some  water  into  the  tin  basin,  and  put  in  a  piece  of 
soap.  She  got  the  comb  and  brush,  and  smoothed  his  thin 
gray  hair  after  he  had  washed.  Then  she  put  the  beans,  hot 
bread,  and  tea  on  the  table.  Sammy  came  in,  and  the  family 
drew  up.  Adoniram  sat  looking  dazedly  at  his  plate,  and 
they  waited. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  ask  a  blessin',  father?"  said  Sarah. 

And  the  old  man  bent  his  head  and  mumbled. 

All  through  the  meal  he  stopped  eating  at  intervals,  and 
stared  furtively  at  his  wife;  but  he  ate  well.  The  home 
food  tasted  good  to  him,  and  his  old  frame  was  too  sturdily 
healthy  to  be  affected  by  his  mind.  But  after  supper  he 
went  out,  and  sat  down  on  the  step  of  the  smaller  door  at 
the  right  of  the  barn,  through  which  he  had  meant  his  Jer 
seys  to  pass  in  stately  file,  but  which  Sarah  designed  for  her 
front  house  door,  and  he  leaned  his  head  on  his  hands. 

After  the  supper  dishes  were  cleared  away  and  the  milk- 
pans  washed,  Sarah  went  out  to  him.  The  twilight  was 


224    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

deepening.  There  was  a  clear  green  glow  in  the  sky.  Be-' 
fore  them  stretched  the  smooth  level  of  field;  in  the  distance 
was  a  cluster  of  hay-stacks  like  the  huts  of  a  village;  the  air 
was  very  cool  and  calm  and  sweet.  The  landscape  might 
have  been  an  ideal  one  of  peace. 

Sarah  bent  over  and  touched  her  husband  on  one  of  his 
thin,  sinewy  shoulders.  "Father  1" 

The  old  man's  shoulders  heaved :  he  was  weeping. 

"Why,  don't  do  so,  father,"  said  Sarah. 

"I'll — put  up  the — partitions,  an' — everything  you — want, 
mother." 

Sarah  put  her  apron  up  to  her  face;  she  was  overcome  by 
her  own  triumph. 

Adoniram  was  like  a  fortress  whose  walls  had  no  active 
resistance,  and  went  down  the  instant  the  right  besieging  tools 
were  used.  "Why,  mother,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  "I  hadn't  no 
idee  you  was  so  set  on't  as  all  this  comes  to." 


TOLD  IN  THE  POORHOUSE  * 

BY  ALICE  BROWN 

LE'  me  see,"  said  old  Sally  Flint,  "was  it  fifty  year  ago, 
or  was  it  on'y  forty?     Some'er's  betwixt  1825  an'  '26 
it  must  ha'  been  when  they  were  married,  an'  'twas  in 
'41  he  died." 

The  other  old  women  in  the  Poorhouse  sitting-room  gath 
ered  about  her.  Old  Mrs. 'Forbes,  who  dearly  loved  a  story, 
unwound  a  length  of  yarn  with  peculiar  satisfaction,  and 
put  her  worn  shoe  up  to  the  fire.  Everybody  knew  when 
Sally  Flint  was  disposed  to  open  her  unwritten  book  of  folk 
tales  for  the  public  entertainment;  and  to-day,  having  tied 
on  a  fresh  apron  and  bound  a  new  piece  of  red  flannel  about 
her  wrist,  she  was,  so  to  speak,  in  fighting  trim.  The  other 
members  of  the  Poorhouse  had  scanty  faith  in  that  red  flan 
nel.  They  were  aware  that  Sally  had  broken  her  wrist, 
some  twenty  years  before,  and  that  the  bandage  was  conse 
quently  donned  on  days  when  her  "hand  felt  kind  o'  cold," 
or  was  "burnin'  like  fire  embers";  but  there  was  an  unspoken 
suspicion  that  it  really  served  as  token  of  her  inability  to 
work  whenever  she  felt  bored  by  the  prescribed  routine  of 
knitting  and  sweeping.  No  one  had  dared  presume  on  that 
theory,  however,  since  the  day  when  an  untactful  overseer 
had  mentioned  it,  to  be  met  by  such  a  stream  of  unpleasant 
reminiscence  concerning  his  immediate  ancestry  that  he  had 
retreated  in  dismay,  and  for  a  week  after,  had  served  extra 
pieces  of  pie  to  his  justly  offended  charge. 

"They  were  married  in  June,"  continued  Sally.  "No, 
'twa'nt;  'twas  the  last  o'  May.  May  thirty-fust — no,  May 
'ain't  but  thirty  days,  has  it?" 

*By  permission  of,  and  by  special  arrangement  with,  Houghton 
Mifflin  Company,  the  authorized  publishers,  and  by  permission  of 
the  author. 

225 


226   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"  'Thirty  days  hath  September,'  "  quoted  Mrs.  Giles,  with 
importance.  "That's  about  all  I've  got  left  o'  my  schooling 
Miss  Flint.  May's  got  thirty-one  days,  sure  enough. " 

"Call  it  the  thirty-fust,  then.  It's  nigh  enough,  anyway. 
Well,  Josh  Marden  an*  Lyddy  Ann  Crane  was  married,  an* 
for  nine  year  they  lived  like  two  kittens.  Old  Sperry  Dyer, 
that  wanted  to  git  Lyddy  himself,  used  to  call  'em  cup  an* 
sasser.  'There  they  be/  he'd  say,  when  he  stood  outside  the 
meetin'-house  door  an'  they  drove  up,  'there  comes  cup  an' 
sasser.'  Lyddy  was  a  little  mite  of  a  thing,  with  great  black 
eyes;  an'  if  Josh  hadn't  been  as  tough  as  tripe,  he'd  ha'  got 
all  wore  out  waitin'  on  her.  He  even  washed  the  potaters 
for  her,  made  the  fires,  an'  lugged  water.  Scairt  to  death  if 
she  was  sick !  She  used  to  have  sick  headaches,  an'  one  day 
he  stopped  choppin'  pine  limbs  near  the  house  'cause  the 
noise  hurt  Lyddy  Ann's  head.  Another  time,  I  recollect,  she 
had  erysipelas  in  her  face,  an'  I  went  in  to  carry  some  elder- 
blows,  an'  found  him  readin'  the  Bible.  'Lord!'  says  I, 
'Josh,  that's  on'y  Genesis!  'twon't  do  the  erysipelas  a  mite 
o'  good  for  you  to  be  settin'  there  readin'  the  begats!  You 
better  turn  to  Revelations.'  But'  'twa'nt  all  on  his  side, 
nuther.  'Twas  give  an'  take  with  them.  It  used  to  seem  as 
if  Lyddy  Ann  kind  o'  worshipped  him.  'Josh'  we  all  called 
him;  but  she  used  to  say  'Joshuay,'  an'  look  at  him  as  if  he 
was  the  Lord  A 'mighty." 

"My!  Sally!"  said  timid  Mrs.  Spenser,  under  her  breath; 
but  Sally  gave  no  heed,  and  swept  on  in  the  stream  of  her 
recollections. 

"Well,  it  went  on  for  fifteen  year,  an'  then  'Mandy 
Knowles,  Josh's  second  cousin,  come  to  help  'em  with  the 
work.  'Mandy  was  a  queer  creatur.  I've  studied  a  good 
deal  over  her,  an'  I  dunno  's  I've  quite  got  to  the  bottom  of 
her  yit.  She  was  one  o'  them  sort  o'  slow  women,  with  a  fat 
face,  an'  she  hadn't  got  over  dressin'  young,  though  Lyddy 
an'  the  rest  of  us  that  was  over  thirty  was  wearin'  caps  an* 
talkin'  about  false  fronts.  But  she  never'd  had  no  beaux; 
an'  when  Josh  begun  to  praise  her  an'  say  how  nice  'twas  to 
have  her  there,  it  tickled  her  e'en  a'most  to  death.  She'd 
lived  alone  with  her  mother  an'  two  old-maid  aunts,  an'  she 


TOLD  IN  THE  POORHOUSE  227. 

didn't  know  nothin'  about  men-folks;  I  al'ays  thought  she 
felt  they  was  different  somehow — kind  o'  cherubim  an* 
seraphim — an'  you'd  got  to  mind  'em  as  if  you  was  the  Chil- 
dern  of  Isr'el  an'  they  was  Moses.  Josh  never  meant  a  mite 
o'  harm,  111  say  that  for  him.  He  was  jest  man-like,  that's 
all.  There's  lots  o'  different  kinds — here,  Mis'  Niles,  you 
know,  you've  buried  your  third — an  Josh  was  the  kind  that 
can't  see  more'n  one  woman  to  a  time.  He  looked  at  'Mandy, 
an'  he  got  over  seem'  Lyddy  Ann,  that's  all.  Things  would 
ha'  come  out  all  right — as  right  as  they  be  for  most  married 
folk — if  Lyddy  Ann  hadn't  been  so  high-sperited;  but  she 
set  the  world  by  Joshuay,  an'  there  'twas.  'Ain't  it  nice  to 
have  her  here?'  he  kep'  on  sayin'  over'n'  over  to  Lyddy,  an' 
she'd  say  'Yes';  but  byme-by,  when  she  found  he  was  al'ays 
on  hand  to  bring  a  pail  o'  water  for  'Mandy,  or  to  throw  away 
her  suds,  or  even  help  hang  out  the  clo'es — I  see  'em  hangin' 
out  clo'es  one  day  when  I  was  goin'  across  their  lot  huckle- 
berr'in',  an'  he  did  look  like  a  great  gump,  an'  so  did  she — 
well,  then,  Lyddy  Ann  got  to  seemin'  kind  o'  worried,  an* 
she  had  more  sick  headaches  than  ever.  'Twa'nt  a  year  afore 
that,  I'd  been  in  one  day  when  she  had  a  headache,  an'  he 
says,  as  if  he  was  perfessin'  his  faith  in  meetin',  'By  gum !  I 
wish  I  could  have  them  headaches  for  her!'  an'  I  thought  o' 
speakin'  of  it,  about  now,  when  I  run  in  to  borrer  some  sale- 
ratus,  an'  he  hollered  into  the  bedroom,  'Lyddy  Ann,  you  got 
another  headache?  If  I  had  such  a  head  as  that,  I'd  cut  it 
off!'  An'  all  the  time  'Mandy  did  act  like  the  very  Old 
Nick,  jest  as  any  old  maid  would  that  hadn't  set  her  mind  on 
menfolks  till  she  was  thirty-five.  She  bought  a  red-plaid 
bow  an'  pinned  it  on  in  front,  an'  one  day  I  ketched  her  at 
the  lookin '-glass  pullin'  out  a  gray  hair. 

"  'Land,  'Mandy,'  says  I  (I  spoke  right  up),  'do  you  pull 
'em  out  as  fast  as  they  come?  That's  why  you  ain't  no 
grayer,  I  s'pose.  I  was  sayin'  the  other  day,  "  'Mandy 
Knowles  is  gittin'  on,  but  she  holds  her  own  pretty  well.  I 
dunno  how  she  manages  it,  whether  she  dyes  or  not,"  '  says  I. 

"An'  afore  she  could  stop  herself,  'Mandy  turned  round, 
red  as  a  beet,  to  look  at  Josh  an'  see  if  he  heard.  He 
stamped  out  into  the  wood-house,  but  Lyddy  Ann  never  took 


228   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

her  eyes  off  her  work.  Them  little  spiteful  things  didn't 
seem  to  make  no  impression  on  her.  I've  thought  a  good 
many  times  sence,  she  didn't  care  how  handsome  other  women 
was,  nor  how  scrawny  she  was  herself,  if  she  could  on'y 
keep  Josh.  An'  Josh  he  got  kind  o'  fretful  to  her,  an'  she 
to  him,  an'  'Mandy  was  all  honey  an'  cream.  Nothin'  would 
do  but  she  must  learn  how  to  make  the  gingerbread  he  liked, 
an'  iron  his  shirts ;  an'  when  Lyddy  Ann  found  he  seemed  to 
praise  things  up  jest  as  much  as  he  had  when  she  done  'em, 
she  give  'em  up,  an'  done  the  hard  things  herself,  an'  let 
'Mandy  see  to  Josh.  She  looked  pretty  pindlin'  then,  mark 
my  words,  but  I  never  see  two  such  eyes  in  anybody's  head. 
I  s'pose  'twas  a  change  for  Josh,  anyway,  to  be  with  a  woman 
like  'Mandy,  that  never  said  her  soul's  her  own,  for  Lyddy'd 
al'ays  had  a  quick  way  with  her;  but,  land!  you  can't  tell 
about  men,  what  changes  'em  or  what  don't.  If  you're  tied 
to  one,  you've  jest  got  to  bear  with  him,  an'  be  thankful  if  he 
don't  run  some  kind  of  a  rig  an'  make  you  town-talk." 

There  was  a  murmur  from  gentle  Lucy  Staples,  who  had 
been  constant  for  fifty  years  to  the  lover  who  died  in  her 
youth;  but  no  one  took  any  notice  of  her,  and  Sally  Flint 
went  on : 

"It  come  spring,  an'  somehow  or  nuther  'Mandy  found  out 
the  last  o'  March  was  Josh's  birthday,  an'  nothin'  would  do 
but  she  must  make  him  a  present.  So  she  walked  over  to 
Sudleigh,  an'  bought  him  a  great  long  pocket-book  that  you 
could  put  your  bills  into  without  foldin'  'em,  an'  brought  it 
home,  tickled  to  death  because  she'd  been  so  smart.  Some  o' 
this  come  out  at  the  time,  an'  some  wa'nt  known  till  arter- 
wards;  the  hired  man  told  some,  an'  a  good  deal  the  neigh 
bors  see  themselves.  An'  I'll  be  whipped  if  'Mandy  her 
self  didn't  tell  the  heft  on't  arter  'twas  all  over.  She  wa'n't 
more'n  half  baked  in  a  good  many  things.  It  got  round 
somehow  that  the  pocket-book  was  comin',  an'  when  I  see 
'Mandy  walkin'  home  that  arternoon,  I  ketched  up  my  shawl 
an*  run  in  behind  her,  to  borrer  some  yeast.  Nobody  thought 
anything  o'  birthdays  in  our  neighborhood,  an'  mebbe  that 
made  it  seem  a  good  deal  more'n  'twas;  but  when  I  got  in 
there,  I  vow  I  was  sorry  I  come.  There  set  Josh  by  the 


TOLD  IN  THE  POORHOUSE  229 

kitchen  table,  sort  o'  red  an'  pleased,  with  his  old  pocket- 
book  open  afore  him,  an'  he  was  puttin'  all  his  bills  an* 
papers  into  the  new  one,  an'  sayin',  every  other  word, 

"  'Why,  'Mandy,  I  never  see  your  beat !  Ain't  this  a  nice 
one,  Lyddy?' 

"An'  'Mandy  was  b'ilin'  over  with  pride,  an*  she  stood  there 
takin'  off  her  cloud;  she'd  been  in  such  a  hurry  to  give  it  to 
him  she  hadn't  even  got  her  things  off  fust.  Lyddy  stood 
by  the  cupboard,  lookin'  straight  at  the  glass  spoon-holder. 
I  thought  arterwards  I  didn't  b'lieve  she  see  it;  an*  if  she 
did,  I  guess  she  never  forgot  it. 

"  'Yes,  it's  a  real  nice  one,'  says  I. 

"I  had  to  say  suthin',  but  in  a  minute,  I  was  most  scairt. 
Lyddy  turned  round,  in  a  kind  of  a  flash;  her  face  blazed 
all  over  red,  an'  her  eyes  kind  o'  went  through  me.  She 
stepped  up  to  the  table,  an'  took  up  the  old  pocket-book. 

"  'You've  got  a  new  one,'  says  she.      'May  I  have  this?' 

"  'Course  you  may,'  says  he. 

"He  didn't  look  up  to  see  her  face,  and  her  voice  was  so 
soft  an'  still,  I  guess  he  never  thought  nothin'  of  it.  Then 
she  held  the  pocketbook  up  tight  ag'inst  her  dress  waist  an* 
walked  off  into  the  bedroom.  I  al'ays  thought  she  never 
knew  I  was  there.  An'  arterwards  it  come  out  that  that  old 
pocket-book  was  one  she'd  bought  for  him  afore  they  was 
married, — earned  it  bindin'  shoes." 

"  'Twas  kind  o'  hard,"  owned  Mrs.  Niles,  bending  for 
ward,  and,  with  hands  clasped  over  her  knees,  peering  into 
the  coals  for  data  regarding  her  own  marital  experiences. 
"But  if  'twas  all  wore  out — did  you  say  'twas  wore? — 
well,  then  I  dunno's  you  could  expect  him  to  set  by  it.  An* 
'twa'n't  as  if  he'd  give  it  away;  they'd  got  it  between  'em." 

"I  dunno;  it's  all  dark  to  me,"  owned  Sally  Flint.  "I 
guess  'twould  puzzle  a  saint  to  explain  men-folks,  anyway, 
but  I've  al'ays  thought  they  was  sort  o'  numb  about  some 
things.  Anyway,  Josh  Marden  was.  Well,  things  went  on 
that  way  till  the  fust  part  o'  the  summer,  an'  then  they  come 
to  a  turnm'-p'int.  I  s'pose  they'd  got  to,  some  time,  an'  it 
might  jest  as  well  ha'  been  fust  as  last.  Lyddy  Ann  was 
pretty  miserable,  an'  she'd  been  dosin'  with  thoroughwort  an' 


230    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

what  all  when  anybody  told  her  to;  but  I  al'ays  thought  she 
never  cared  a  mite  whether  she  lived  to  see  another  spring. 
The  day  I'm  comin'  to,  she  was  standin'  over  the  fire  fryin' 
fish,  an'  'Mandy  was  sort  o'  fiddlin'  round,  settin'  the  table, 
an*  not  doin'  much  of  anything  arter  all.  I  dunno  how  she 
come  to  be  so  aggravating  for  she  was  al'ays  ready  to  do 
her  part,  if  she  had  come  between  husband  an'  wife.  You 
know  how  hard  it  is  to  git  a  fish  dinner!  Well,  Lyddy  Ann 
was  tired  enough,  anyway.  An'  when  Josh  come  in,  'Mandy 
she  took  a  cinnamon-rose  out  of  her  dress,  an*  offered  it  to 
him. 

"  'Here's  a  flower  for  your  button-hole,'  says  she,  as  if 
she  wa'n't  more'n  sixteen.  An'  then  she  set  down  in  a  chair, 
an*  fanned  herself  with  a  newspaper. 

"Now  that  chair  happened  to  be  Lyddy  Ann's  at  the  table, 
an'  she  see  what  was  bein'  done.  She  turned  right  round, 
with  the  fish-platter  in  her  hand,  an'  says  she,  in  an  awful 
kind  of  a  voice, 

"  'You  git  up  out  o'  my  chair !  You've  took  my  husband 
away,  but  you  sha'n't  take  my  place  at  the  table !' 

"The  hired  man  was  there,  washin'  his  hands  at  the  sink, 
an'  he  told  it  to  me  jest  as  it  happened.  Well,  I  guess  they  all 
thought  they  was  struck  by  lightnin',  an'  Lyddy  Ann  most 
of  all.  Josh  he  come  to,  fust.  He  walked  over  to  Lyddy 
Ann. 

"  'You  put  down  that  platter!'  says  he.  An'  she  begun  to 
tremble,  an'  set  it  down. 

"I  guess  they  thought  there  was  goin'  to  be  murder  done, 
for  'Mandy  busted  right  out  cryin'  an'  come  runnin'  over  to 
me,  an'  the  hired  man  took  a  step  an'  stood  side  o'  Lyddy 
Ann.  He  was  a  little  mite  of  a  man,  Cyrus  was,  but  he 
wouldn't  ha'  stood  no  violence. 

"Josh  opened  the  door  that  went  into  the  front  entry,  an* 
jest  p'inted.  'You  walk  in  there,'  he  says,  'an'  you  stay 
there.  That's  your  half  o'  the  house,  an'  this  is  mine. 
Don't  you  dast  to  darken  my  doors!' 

"Lyddy  Ann  she  walked  through  the  entry  an'  into  the 
fore-room,  an'  he  shet  the  door." 

"I  wouldn't  ha'  done  it!"  snorted  old  Mrs.  Page,  who  had 


TOLD  IN  THE  POORHOUSE  231 

spent  all  her  property  in  lawsuits  over  a  right  of  way. 
"Ketch  me!" 

"You  would  if  you'd  V  been  Lyddy  Ann!"  said  Sally 
Flint,  with  an  emphatic  nod.  Then  she  continued:  "I 
hadn't  more'n  heard  'Mandy's  story  afore  I  was  over  there; 
but  jest  as  I  put  my  foot  on  the  door-sill,  Josh  he  come  for- 
'ard  to  meet  me. 

"'What's  wanted?'  says  he.  An'  I  declare  for't  I  was 
so  scairt  I  jest  turned  round  an*  cut  for  home.  An*  there  set 
'Mandy,  wringin'  her  hands. 

"'What  be  I  goin'  to  do?*  says  she,  over'n*  over.  'Who 
ever'd  ha'  thought  o'  this?' 

"  'The  thing  for  you  to  do,'  says  I,  'is  to  go  straight  home 
to  your  mother,  an'  I'll  harness  up  an'  carry  you.  Don't  you 
step  your  foot  inside  that  house  ag'in.  Maybe  ma'am  will 
go  over  an'  pack  up  your  things.  You've  made  mischief 
enough.'  So  we  got  her  off  that  arternoon,  an'  that  was  an 
end  of  her. 

"I  never  could  see  what  made  Josh  think  so  quick  that  day. 
We  never  thought  he  was  brighter'n  common;  but  jest  see  how 
in  that  flash  o'  bein'  mad  with  Lyddy  Ann  he'd  planned  out 
what  would  be  most  wormwood  for  her!  He  gi'n  her  the 
half  o*  the  house  she'd  furnished  herself  with  hair-cloth 
chairs  an'  a  what-not,  but  'twa'n't  the  part  that  was  fit  to  be 
lived  in.  She  stayed  pretty  close  for  three  or  four  days,  an* 
I  guess  she  never  had  nothin'  to  eat.  It  made  me  kind  o* 
sick  to  think  of  her  in  there  settin'  on  her  haircloth  sofy,  an* 
lookin'  at  her  wax  flowers  an'  the  coral  on  the  what-not,  an* 
thinkin'  what  end  she'd  made.  It  was  of  a  Monday  she  was 
sent  in  there,  an*  Tuesday  night  I  slipped  over  an'  put  some 
luncheon  on  the  winder-sill ;  but  'twas  there  the  next  day,  an* 
Cyrus  see  the  old  crower  fly  up  an'  git  it.  An'  that  same 
Tuesday  mornin',  Josh  had  a  j'iner  come  an'  begin  a  parti 
tion  right  straight  through  the  house.  It  was  all  rough 
boards,  like  a  high  fence,  an'  it  cut  the  front  entry  in  two,  an' 
went  right  through  the  kitchen — so 't  the  kitchen  stove  was 
one  side  on  't,  an'  the  sink  the  other.  Lyddy  Ann's  side  had 
the  stove.  I  was  glad  o'  that,  though  I  s'pose  she  'most  had 
a  fit  every  day  to  think  o'  him  tryin'  to  cook  over  the  air- 


232    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

tight  in  the  settin'-room.  Seemed  kind  o'  queer  to  go  to  the 
front  door,  too,  for  you  had  to  open  it  wide  an'  squeeze  round 
the  partition  to  git  into  Lyddy  Ann's  part,  an'  a  little  mite  of 
a  crack  would  let  you  into  Josh's.  But  they  didn't  have 
many  callers.  It  was  a  good  long  while  afore  anybody  dared 
to  say  a  word  to  her;  an'  as  for  Josh,  there  wa'n't  nobody 
that  cared  about  seein'  him  but  the  tax-collector  and  pedlers. 

"Well,  the  trouble  Josh  took  to  carry  out  that  mad  fit! 
He  split  wood  an'  laid  it  down  at  Lyddy  Ann's  door,  an'  he 
divided  the  eggs  an'  milk,  an'  shoved  her  half  inside.  He 
bought  her  a  separate  barrel  o'  flour,  an'  all  the  groceries  he 
could  think  on;  they  said  he  laid  money  on  her  winder-sill. 
But,  take  it  all  together,  he  was  so  busy  actin'  like  a  crazed 
one  that  he  never  got  his  'taters  dug  till  'most  time  for  the 
frost.  Lyddy  Ann  she  never  showed  her  head  among  the 
neighbors  ag'in.  When  she  see  she'd  got  to  stay  there,  she 
begun  to  cook  for  herself;  but  one  day,  one  o'  the  neighbors 
heard  her  pleadin*  with  Josh,  out  in  the  cow-yard,  while 
he  was  milkin'. 

"  'O  Joshuay/  she  kep*  a-sayin'  over'n'  over,  'you  needn't 
take  me  back,  if  you'll  on'y  let  me  do  your  work!  You 
needn't  speak  to  me,  an'  I'll  live  in  the  other  part;  but  I 
shall  be  crazy  if  you  don't  let  me  do  your  work.  O  Joshuay ! 
O  Joshuay!'  She  cried  an'  cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break, 
but  Josh  went  on  milkin',  and  never  said  a  word. 

"I  s'pose  she  thought  he'd  let  her,  the  old  hunks,  for  the 
next  day  she  baked  some  pies  an'  set  'fm  on  the  table  in 
his  part.  She  reached  in  through  the  winder  to  do  it.  But 
that  night,  when  Josh  come  home,  he  hove  'em  all  out  into 
the  back  yard,  an'  the  biddies  eat  'em  up.  The  last  time  I 
was  there,  I  see  them  very  pieces  o'  pie-plate,  white  an'  blue- 
edged,  under  the  syringa  bush.  Then  she  kind  o'  give  up 
hope.  I  guess —  But  no!  I'm  gittin'  ahead  o'  my  story. 
She  did  try  him  once  more.  Of  course  his  rooms  got  to 
lookin'  like  a  hog's  nest — " 

"My!  I  guess  when  she  see  him  doin'  his  own  washin', 
she  thought  the  pocket-book  was  a  small  affair,"  interpolated 
Mrs.  Niles. 

"She  used  to  go  round  peerin'  into  his  winders  when  he 


TOLD  IN  THE  POORHOUSE  233 

wa'n't  there,  an'  one  day,  arter  he'd  gone  off  to  trade  some 
steers,  she  jest  spunked  up  courage  an'  went  in  an'  cleaned 
all  up.  I  see  the  bed  airin',  an'  went  over  an'  ketched  her  at 
it.  She  hadn't  more'n  got  through  an'  stepped  outside  when 
Josh  come  home,  an'  what  should  he  do  but  take  the  wheel- 
barrer  an',  beat  out  as  he  was  drivin'  oxen  five  mile,  go 
down  to  the  gravel-pit  an'  get  a  barrerful  o'  gravel.  He 
wheeled  it  up  to  the  side  door,  an'  put  a  plank  over  the  steps, 
an'  wheeled  it  right  in.  An'  then  he  dumped  it  in  the  middle 
o'  his  clean  floor.  That  was  the  last  o'  her  tryin'  to  do  for 
him  on  the  sly. 

"I  should  ha'  had  some  patience  with  him  if  'twa'n't  for 
one  thing  he  done  to  spite  her.  Seemed  as  if  he  meant  to 
shame  her  that  way  afore  the  whole  neighborhood.  He 
wouldn't  speak  to  her  himself,  but  he  sent  a  painter  by  trade 
to  tell  her  he  was  goin'  to  paint  the  house,  an'  to  ask  her 
what  color  she'd  ruther  have.  The  painter  said  she  acted 
sort  o'  wild,  she  was  so  pleased.  She  told  him  yaller;  an' 
Josh  had  him  go  right  to  work  on't  next  day.  But  he  had 
her  half  painted  yaller,  an'  his  a  kind  of  a  drab,  I  guess 
you'd  call  it.  He  sold  a  piece  o'  ma'sh  to  pay  for't.  Dr. 
Parks  said  you  might  as  well  kill  a  woman  with  a  hatchet,  as 
the  man  did  down  to  Sudleigh,  as  put  her  through  such 
treatment.  My!  ain't  it  growin'  late?  Here,  let  me  set  back 
by  the  winder.  I  want  to  see  who  goes  by,  to-day.  An* 
I'll  cut  my  story  short. 

"Well,  they  lived  jest  that  way.  Lyddy  Ann  she  looked 
like  an  old  woman,  in  a  month  or  two.  She  looked  every 
minute  as  old  as  you  do,  Mis'  Gridley.  Ain't  you  sixty- 
nine?  Well,  she  wa'n't  but  thirty-six.  Her  hair  turned 
gray,  an'  she  was  all  stooped  over.  Sometimes  I  thought 
she  wa'n't  jest  right.  I  used  to  go  in  to  see  if  she'd  go 
coltsfootin'  with  me,  or  plummin';  but  she  never'd  make  me 
no  answer.  I  recollect  two  things  she  said.  One  day,  she 
set  rockin'  back'ards  an'  for'ards  in  a  straight  chair,  holdin' 
her  hands  round  her  knees,  an'  she  says, 

"  'I  ain't  got  no  pride,  Sally  Flint!    I  ain't  got  no  pride!' 

"An'  once  she  looked  up  kind  o'  pitiful  an'  says,  'Ain't  it 
queer  I  can't  die?'  But,  poor  creatur',  I  never  thought  she 


234    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

knew  what  she  was  sayin'.  She'd  ha'  been  the  last  one  to 
own  she  wa'n't  contented  if  she'd  had  any  gover'ment  over 
her  words. 

"Well,  Josh  he'd  turned  the  hired  man  away  because  he 
couldn't  do  for  him  over  the  air-tight  stove,  an'  he  got  men 
to  help  him  by  day's  works.  An'  through  the  winter,  he  jest 
set  over  the  fire  an'  sucked  his  claws,  an'  thought  how  smart 
he  was.  But  one  day  'twas  awful  cold,  an'  we'd  been  tryin' 
out  lard,  an'  the  fat  ketched  fire,  an'  everything  was  all  up 
in  arms,  anyway.  Cyrus  he  was  goin'  by  Josh's,  an'  he 
didn't  see  no  smoke  from  the  settin'-room  stove.  So  he 
jest  went  to  the  side  door  an'  walked  in,  an'  there  set  Josh  in 
the  middle  o'  the  room.  Couldn't  move  hand  nor  foot! 
Cyrus  didn't  stop  for  no  words,  but  he  run  over  to  our  house, 
hollerin',  'Josh  Marden's  got  a  stroke!'  An'  ma'am  left  the 
stove  all  over  fat  an'  run,  an'  I  arter  her.  I  guess  Lyddy  Ann 
must  ha'  seen  us  comin',  for  we  hadn't  more'n  got  into  the 
settin'-room  afore  she  was  there.  The  place  was  cold  as  a 
barn,  an'  it  looked  like  a  hurrah's  nest.  Josh  never  moved, 
but  his  eyes  follered  her  when  she  went  into  the  bedroom  to 
spread  up  the  bed. 

"  'You  help  me,  Cyrus/  says  she,  kind  o'  twittery-like, 
but  calm.  'We'll  carry  him  in  here.  I  can  lift.' 

"But  our  men-folks  got  there  jest  about  as  they  were 
tryin'  to  plan  how  to  take  him,  an'  they  h'isted  him  onto  the 
bed.  Cyrus  harnessed  up  our  horse  an'  went  after  Dr.  Parks, 
an'  by  the  time  he  come,  we'd  got  the  rooms  so's  to  look 
decent.  An' — if  you'll  b'lieve  it! — Lyddy  Ann  was  in  the 
bedroom  tryin'  to  warm  Josh  up  an'  make  him  take  some 
hot  drink;  but  when  I  begun  to  sweep  up,  an'  swop  towards 
that  gravel-pile  in  the  middle  o'  the  floor,  she  come  hurryin' 
up,  all  out  o'  breath.  She  ketched  the  broom  right  out  o' 
my  hand. 

"  'I'll  sweep,  bime-by,'  says  she.  'Don't  you  touch  that 
gravel,  none  on  ye!'  An'  so  the  gravel  laid  there,  an'  we 
walked  round  it,  watchers  an'  all. 

"She  wouldn't  have  no  watcher  in  his  bedroom,  though; 
she  was  determined  to  do  everything  but  turn  him  an'  lift  him 
herself,  but  there  was  al'ays  one  or  two  settin'  round  to  keep 


TOLD  IN  THE  POORHOUSE  235 

the  fires  goin'  an'  make  sure  there  was  enough  cooked  up. 
I  swan,  I  never  see  a  woman  so  happy  round  a  bed  o'  sick 
ness  as  Lyddy  Ann  was!  She  never  made  no  fuss  when 
Josh  was  awake,  but  if  he  shet  his  eyes,  she'd  kind  o'  hang 
over  the  bed  an'  smooth  the  clo'es  as  if  they  was  kittens  an* 
once  I  ketched  her  huggin'»  up  the  sleeve  of  his  old  barn  coat 
that  hung  outside  the  door.  If  ever  a  woman  made  a  fool 
of  herself  over  a  man  that  wa'n't  wuth  it,  'twas  Lyddy  Ann 
Alarden ! 

"Well,  Josh  he  hung  on  for  a  good  while,  an'  we  couldn't 
make  out  whether  he  had  his  senses  or  not.  He  kep'  his  eyes 
shet  most  o'  the  time;  but  when  Lyddy  Ann's  back  was 
turned,  he  seemed  to  know  it  somehow,  an'  he'd  open  'em 
an'  foller  her  all  round  the  room.  But  he  never  spoke.  I 
asked  the  doctor  about  it. 

"  'Can't  he  speak,  doctor?'  says  I.  'He  can  move  that 
hand  a  leetle  to-day.  Don't  you  s'pose  he  could  speak,  if 
he'd  a  mind  to?' 

"The  doctor  he  squinted  up  his  eyes — he  al'ays  done  that 
when  he  didn't  want  to  answer — an'  he  says, 

"  'I  guess  he's  thinkin'  on't  over.' 

"But  one  day,  Lyddy  Ann  found  she  was  all  beat  out,  an' 
she  laid  down  in  the  best  bedroom  an'  went  to  sleep.  I  set 
with  Josh.  I  was  narrerin'  off,  but  when  I  looked  up,  he  was 
beckonin'  with  his  well  hand.  I  got  up,  an'  went  to  the  bed. 

"  'Be  you  dry?'  says  I.  He  made  a  little  motion,  an'  then 
he  lifted  his  hand  an'  p'inted  out  into  the  settin'-room. 

"  'Do  you  want  Lyddy  Ann?'  says  I.  'She's  laid  down.' 
No,  he  didn't  want  her.  I  went  to  the  settin'-room  door  an' 
looked  out,  an' — I  dunno  how  'twas — it  all  come  to  me. 

"  'Is  it  that  gravel-heap?'  says  I.  'Do  you  want  it  carried 
off,  an'  the  floor  swop  up?'  An'  he  made  a  motion  to  say 
'Yes.'  I  called  Cyrus,  an'  we  made  short  work  o'  that  gravel. 
When  I'd  took  up  the  last  mite  on't,  I  went  back  to  the  bed. 

'"Josh  Harden,'  says  I,  'can  you  speak,  or  can't  you?' 
But  he  shet  his  eyes,  an'  wouldn't  say  a  word. 

"When  Lyddy  Ann  come  out,  I  told  her  what  he'd  done, 
an'  then  she  did  give  way  a  little  mite.  Two  tears  come  out 


236    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

o*  her  eyes,  an*  jest  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  but  she  didn't 
give  up  to  'em. 

"  'Sally,'  says  she,  sort  o'  peaceful,  'I  guess  I'll  have  a 
cup  o'  tea.' 

"Well,  there  was  times  when  we  thought  Josh  would  git 
round  ag'in,  if  he  didn't  have  another  stroke.  I  dunno 
whether  he  did  have  another  or  not,  but  one  night,  he  seemed 
to  be  sort  o'  sinkin'  away.  Lyddy  Ann  she  begun  to  turn 
white,  an'  she  set  down  by  him  an'  rubbed  his  sick  hand.  He 
looked  at  her — fust  time  he  had,  fair  an'  square — an'  then 
he  begun  to  wobble  his  lips  round  an*  make  a  queer  noise 
with  'em.  She  put  her  head  down,  an'  then  she  says,  'Yes, 
Joshuay!  yes,  dear!'  An'  she  got  up  an'  took  the  pocket-book 
'Mandy  had  gi'n  him  off  the  top  o'  the  bureau,  an'  laid  it 
down  on  the  bed  where  he  could  git  it.  But  he  shook  his 
head,  an'  said  the  word  ag'in,  an'  a  queer  look — as  if  she  was 
scairt  an'  pleased —  flashed  over  Lyddy  Ann's  face.  She 
run  into  the  parlor,  an'  come  back  with  that  old  pocket- 
book  he'd  give  up  to  her,  an'  she  put  it  into  his  well  hand. 
That  was  what  he  wanted.  His  fingers  gripped  it  up,  an' 
he  shet  his  eyes.  He  never  spoke  ag'in.  He  died  that  night." 

"I  guess  she  died,  too!"  said  Lucy  Staples,  under  her 
breath,  stealthily  wiping  a  tear  from  her  faded  cheek. 

"No,  she  didn't,  either!"  retorted  Sally  Flint,  hastily, 
getting  up  to  peer  from  the  window  down  the  country  road. 
"She  lived  a  good  many  year,  right  in  that  very  room  he'd 
drove  her  out  on,  an'  she  looked  as  if  she  owned  the  airth. 
I've  studied  on  it  consid'able,  an'  I  al'ays  s'posed  'twas  be 
cause  she'd  got  him,  an'  that  was  all  she  cared  for.  There's 
the  hearse  now,  an'  two  carriages,  step  an*  step." 

"Land!  who's  dead?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Forbes,  getting 
up  in  haste,  while  her  ball  rolled  unhindered  to  the  other  end 
of  the  room. 

"It's  Lyddy  Ann  Harden,"  returned  Sally  Flint,  with  the 
triumphant  quiet  of  one  first  at  the  goal.  "I  see  it  this 
mornin'  in  the  County  Democrat,  when  I  was  doin*  up  my 
wrist,  an'  you  was  all  so  busy." 


AN  OCCURRENCE  AT  OWL  CREEK 
BRIDGE  * 

BY  AMBROSE  BIERCE 


A  MAN  stood  upon  a  railroad  bridge  in  northern 
Alabama,  looking  down  into  the  swift  water  twenty 
feet  below.  The  man's  hands  were  behind  his  back, 
the  wrists  bound  with  a  cord.  A  rope  closely  encircled  his 
neck.  It  was  attached  to  a  stout  cross-timber  above  his  head 
and  the  slack  fell  to  the  level  of  his  knees.  Some  loose  boards 
laid  upon  the  sleepers  supporting  the  metals  of  the  railway 
supplied  a  footing  for  him  and  his  executioners — two  private 
soldiers  of  the  Federal  army,  directed  by  a  sergeant  who  in 
civil  life  may  have  been  a  deputy  sheriff.  At  a  short  re 
move  upon  the  same  temporary  platform  was  an  officer  in 
the  uniform  of  his  rank,  armed.  He  was  a  captain.  A 
sentinel  at  each  end  of  the  bridge  stood  with  his  rifle  in  the 
position  known  as  "support,"  that  is  to  say,  vertical  in  front 
of  the  left  shoulder,  the  hammer  resting  on  the  forearm 
thrown  straight  across  the  chest — a  formal  and  unnatural 
position,  enforcing  an  erect  carriage  of  the  body.  It  did  not 
appear  to  be  the  duty  of  these  two  men  to  know  what  was 
occurring  at  the  centre  of  the  bridge;  they  merely  blockaded 
the  two  ends  of  the  foot  planking  that  traversed  it. 

Beyond  one  of  the  sentinels  nobody  was  in  sight ;  the  rail 
road  ran  straight  away  into  a  forest  for  a  hundred  yards, 
then,  curving,  was  lost  to  view.  Doubtless  there  was  an  out 
post  farther  along.  The  other  bank  of  the  stream  was  open 
ground — a  gentle  acclivity  topped  with  a  stockade  of  vertical 
tree  trunks,  loopholed  for  rifles,  with  a  single  embrasure 

*From  "In  the  Midst  of  Life,"  published  by  Boni  &  Liveright. 
Copyright  by  The  Neale  Publishing  Company. 

237 


238   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

through  which  protruded  the  muzzle  of  a  brass  cannon  com 
manding  the  bridge.  Midway  of  the  slope  between  bridge 
and  fort  were  the  spectators — a  single  company  of  infantry 
in  line,  at  "parade  rest,"  the  butts  of  the  rifles  on  the  ground, 
the  barrels  inclining  slightly  backward  against  the  right 
shoulder,  the  hands  crossed  upon  the  stock.  A  lieutenant 
stood  at  the  right  of  the  line,  the  point  of  his  sword  upon  the 
ground,  his  left  hand  resting  upon  his  right.  Excepting 
the  group  of  four  at  the  centre  of  the  bridge,  not  a  man  moved. 
The  company  faced  the  bridge,  staring  stonily,  motionless. 
The  sentinels,  facing  the  banks  of  the  stream,  might  have 
been  statues  to  adorn  the  bridge.  The  captain  stood  with 
folded  arms,  silent,  observing  the  work  of  his  subordinates, 
but  making  no  sign.  Death  is  a  dignitary  who  when  he 
comes  announced  is  to  be  received  with  formal  manifesta 
tions  of  respect,  even  by  those  most  familiar  with  him.  In 
the  code  of  military  etiquette  silence  and  fixity  are  forms  of 
deference. 

The  man  who  was  engaged  in  being  hanged  was  ap 
parently  about  thirty-five  years  of  age.  He  was  a  civilian, 
if  one  might  judge  from  his  habit,  which  was  that  of  a 
planter.  His  features  were  good — a  straight  nose,  firm 
mouth,  broad  forehead,  from  which  his  long  dark  hair  was 
combed  straight  back,  falling  behind  his  ears  to  the  collar 
of  his  well-fitting  frock-coat.  He  wore  a  mustache  and 
pointed  beard,  but  no  whiskers;  his  eyes  were  large  and 
dark  gray,  and  had  a  kindly  expression  which  one  would 
hardly  have  expected  in  one  whose  neck  was  in  the  hemp. 
Evidently  this  was  no  vulgar  assassin.  The  liberal  military 
code  makes  provision  for  hanging  many  kinds  of  persons, 
and  gentlemen  are  not  excluded. 

The  preparations  being  complete,  the  two  private  soldiers 
stepped  aside  and  each  drew  away  the  plank  upon  which  he 
had  been  standing.  The  sergeant  turned  to  the  captain, 
saluted  and  placed  himself  immediately  behind  that  officer, 
who  in  turn  moved  apart  one  pace.  These  movements  left 
the  condemned  man  and  the  sergeant  standing  on  the  two 
ends  of  the  same  plank,  which  spanned  three  of  the  cross- 
ties  of  the  bridge.  The  end  upon  which  the  civilian  stood 


AN  OCCURRENCE  AT  OWL  CREEK  BRIDGE    239 

almost,  but  not  quite,  reached  a  fourth.  This  plank  had 
been  held  in  place  by  the  weight  of  the  captain;  it  was  now 
held  by  that  of  the  sergeant.  At  a  signal  from  the  former 
the  latter  would  step  aside,  the  plank  would  tilt  and  the 
condemned  man  go  down  between  two  ties.  The  arrange 
ment  commended  itself  to  his  judgment  as  simple  and  effec 
tive.  His  face  had  not  been  covered  nor  his  eyes  bandaged, 
He  looked  a  moment  at  his  "unsteadfast  footing,"  then  let 
his  gaze  wander  to  the  swirling  water  of  the  stream  racing 
madly  beneath  his  feet.  A  piece  of  dancing  driftwood  caught 
his  attention  and  his  eyes  followed  it  down  the  current.  How 
slowly  it  appeared  to  move!  What  a  sluggish  stream! 

He  closed  his  eyes  in  order  to  fix  his  last  thoughts  upon 
his  wife  and  children.  The  water,  touched  to  gold  by  the 
early  sun,  the  brooding  mists  under  the  banks  at  some 
distance  down  the  stream,  the  fort,  the  soldiers,  the  piece  of 
drift — all  had  distracted  him.  And  now  he  became  conscious 
of  a  new  disturbance.  Striking  through  the  thought  of  his 
dear  ones  was  a  sound  which  he  could  neither  ignore  nor 
understand,  a  sharp,  distinct,  metallic  percussion  like  the 
stroke  of  a  blacksmith's  hammer  upon  the  anvil;  it  had  the 
same  ringing  quality.  He  wondered  what  it  was,  and 
whether  immeasurably  distant  or  near  by — it  seemed  both. 
Its  recurrence  was  regular,  but  as  slow  as  the  tolling  of  a 
death  knell.  He  awaited  each  stroke  with  impatience  and — 
he  knew  not  why — apprehension.  The  intervals  of  silence 
grew  progressively  longer;  the  delays  became  maddening. 
With  their  greater  infrequency  the  sounds  increased  in 
strength  and  sharpness.  They  hurt  his  ear  like  the  thrust 
of  a  knife;  he  feared  he  would  shriek.  What  he  heard  was 
the  ticking  of  his  watch. 

He  unclosed  his  eyes  and  saw  again  the  water  below  him. 
"If  I  could  free  my  hands,"  he  thought,  "I  might  throw  off 
the  noose  and  spring  into  the  stream.  By  diving  I  could 
evade  the  bullets  and,  swimming  vigorously,  reach  the  bank, 
take  to  the  woods  and  get  away  home.  My  home,  thank 
God,  is  as  yet  outside  their  lines;  my  wife  and  little  ones 
are  still  beyond  the  invader's  farthest  advance." 

As  these  thoughts,  which  hays  here  to  be  set  down  in 


240   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

words,  were  flashed  into  the  doomed  man's  brain  rather  than 
evolved  from  it,  the  captain  nodded  to  the  sergeant.  The 
sergeant  stepped  aside. 

II 

Peyton  Farquhar  was  a  well-to-do  planter,  of  an  old 
and  highly  respected  Alabama  family.  Being  a  slave  owner 
and,  like  other  slave  owners,  a  politician  he  was  naturally  an 
original  secessionist  and  ardently  devoted  to  the  Southern 
cause.  Circumstances  of  an  imperious  nature,  which  it  is 
unnecessary  to  relate  here,  had  prevented  him  from  taking 
service  with  the  gallant  army  that  had  fought  the  disastrous 
campaigns  ending  with  the  fall  of  Corinth,  and  he  chafed 
under  the  inglorious  restraint,  longing  for  the  release  of  his 
energies,  the  larger  life  of  the  soldier,  the  opportunity  for 
distinction.  That  opportunity,  he  felt,  would  come,  as  it 
comes  to  all  in  war  time.  Meanwhile  he  did  what  he  could. 
No  service  was  too  humble  for  him  to  perform  in  aid  of  the 
South,  no  adventure  too  perilous  for  him  to  undertake  if  con 
sistent  with  the  character  of  a  civilian  who  was  at  heart  a 
soldier,  and  who  in  good  faith  and  without  too  much  qualifi 
cation  assented  to  at  least  a  part  of  the  frankly  villainous 
dictum  that  all  is  fair  in  love  and  war. 

One  evening  while  Farquhar  and  his  wife  were  sitting  on  a 
rustic  bench  near  the  entrance  to  his  grounds,  a  gray-clad 
soldier  rode  up  to  the  gate  and  asked  for  a  drink  of  water. 
Mrs.  Farquhar  was  only  too  happy  to  serve  him  with  her  own 
white  hands.  While  she  was  fetching  the  water  her  husband 
approached  the  dusty  horseman  and  inquired  eagerly  for  news 
from  the  front. 

"The  Yanks  are  repairing  the  railroads,"  said  the  man, 
"and  are  getting  ready  for  another  advance.  They  have 
reached  the  Owl  Creek  bridge,  put  it  in  order  and  built  a 
stockade  on  the  north  bank.  The  commandant  has  issued  an 
order,  which  is  posted  everywhere,  declaring  that  any 
civilian  caught  interfering  with  the  railroad,  its  bridges, 
tunnels  or  trains  will  be  summarily  hanged.  I  saw  the 
order." 


AN  OCCURRENCE  AT  OWL  CREEK  BRIDGE    241 

"How  far  it  is  to  the  Owl  Creek  bridge?"  Farquhar 
asked. 

"About  thirty  miles." 

"Is  there  no  force  on  this  side  the  creek?" 

"Only  a  picket  post  half  a  mile  out,  on  the  railroad,  and 
a  single  sentinel  at  this  end  of  the  bridge." 

"Suppose  a  man — a  civilian  and  student  of  hanging — 
should  elude  the  picket  post  and  perhaps  get  the  better  of 
the  sentinel,"  said  Farquhar,  smiling,  "what  could  he  ac 
complish?" 

The  soldier  reflected.  "I  was  there  a  month  ago,"  he 
replied.  "I  observed  that  the  flood  of  last  winter  had  lodged 
a  great  quantity  of  driftwood  against  the  wooden  pier  at 
this  end  of  the  bridge.  It  is  now  dry  and  would  burn  like 
tow." 

The  lady  had  now  brought  the  water,  which  the  soldier 
drank.  He  thanked  her  ceremoniously,  bowed  to  her  hus 
band  and  rode  away.  An  hour  later,  after  nightfall,  he  re- 
passed  the  plantation,  going  northward  in  the  direction  from 
which  he  had  come.  He  was  a  Federal  scout. 

Ill 

As  Peyton  Farquhar  fell  straight  downward  through  the 
bridge  he  lost  consciousness  and  was  as  one  already  dead. 
From  this  state  he  was  awakened — ages  later,  it  seemed  to 
him — by  the  pain  of  a  sharp  pressure  upon  his  throat,  fol 
lowed  by  a  sense  of  suffocation.  Keen,  poignant  agonies 
seemed  to  shoot  from  his  neck  downward  through  every 
fibre  of  his  body  and  limbs.  These  pains  appeared  to  flash 
along  well-defined  lines  of  ramification  and  to  beat  with  an 
inconceivably  rapid  periodicity.  They  seemed  like  streams  of 
pulsating  fire  heating  him  to  an  intolerable  temperature. 
As  to  his  head,  he  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  a  feeling  of 
fulness — of  congestion.  These  sensations  were  unaccom 
panied  by  thought.  The  intellectual  part  of  his  nature  was 
already  effaced;  he  had  power  only  to  feel,  and  feeling  was 
torment.  He  was  conscious  of  motion.  Encompassed  in  a 
luminous  cloud,  of  which  he  was  now  merely  the  fiery  heart, 


242    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

without  material  substance,  he  swung  through  unthinkable 
arcs  of  oscillation,  like  a  vast  pendulum.  Then  all  at  once, 
with  terrible  suddenness,  the  light  about  him  shot  upward 
with  the  noise  of  a  loud  plash;  a  frightful  roaring  "was  in  his 
ears,  and  all  was  cold  and  dark.  The  power  of  thought  was 
restored;  he  knew  that  the  rope  had  broken  and  he  had 
fallen  into  the  stream.  There  was  no  additional  strangula 
tion;  the  noose  about  his  neck  was  already  suffocating  him 
and  kept  the  water  from  his  lungs.  To  die  of  hanging  at 
the  bottom  of  a  river ! — the  idea  seemed  to  him  ludicrous.  He 
opened  his  eyes  in  the  darkness  and  saw  above  him  a  gleam 
of  light,  but  how  distant,  how  inaccessible!  He  was  still 
sinking,  for  the  light  became  fainter  and  fainter  until  it 
was  a  mere  glimmer.  Then  it  began  to  grow  and  brighten, 
and  he  knew  that  he  was  rising  toward  the  surface — knew  it 
with  reluctance,  for  he  was  now  very  comfortable.  ''To  be 
hanged  and  drowned,"  he  thought,  "that  is  not  so  bad;  but 
I  do  not  wish  to  be  shot.  No;  I  will  not  be  shot;  that  is  not 
fair." 

He  was  not  conscious  of  an  effort,  but  a  sharp  pain  in. 
his  wrist  apprised  him  that  he  was  trying  to  free  his  hands. 
He  gave  the  struggle  his  attention,  as  an  idler  might  observe 
the  fetft  of  a  juggler,  without  interest  in  the  outcome.  What 
splendid  effort!  What  magnificent,  what  superhuman 
strength!  Ah,  that  was  a  fine  endeavor!  Bravo!  The  cord 
fell  away;  his  arms  parted  and  floated  upward,  the  hands 
dimly  seen  on  each  side  in  the  growing  light.  He  watched 
them  with  a  new  interest  as  first  one  and  then  the  other 
pounced  upon  the  noose  at  his  neck.  They  tore  it  away  and 
thrust  it  fiercely  aside,  its  undulations  resembling  those  of 
a  water-snake.  "Put  it  back,  put  it  back!"  He  thought  he 
shouted  these  words  to  his  hands,  for  the  undoing  of  the 
noose  had  been  succeeded  by  the  direst  pang  that  he  had  yet 
experienced.  His  neck  ached  horribly;  his  brain  was  on 
fire;  his  heart,  which  had  been  fluttering  faintly,  gave  a 
great  leap,  trying  to  force  itself  out  at  his  mouth.  His  whole 
body  was  racked  and  wrenched  with  an  insupportable 
anguish!  But  his  disobedient  hands  gave  no  heed  to  the 
command.  They  beat  the  water  vigorously  with  quick,  down- 


AN  OCCURRENCE  ££  OWL  CREEK  BRIDGE    243 

ward  strokes,  forcing  him  to  the  surface.  He  felt  his  head 
emerge;  his  eyes  were  blinded  by  the  sunlight;  his  chest 
expanded  convulsively,  and  with  a  supreme  and  crowning 
agony  his  lungs  engulfed  a  great  draught  of  air,  which  in 
stantly  he  expelled  in  a  shriek ! 

He  was  now  in  full  possession  of  his  physical  senses.  They 
were,  indeed,  preternaturally  keen  and  alert.  Something  in 
the  awful  disturbance  of  his  organic  system  had  so  exalted 
and  refined  them  that  they  made  record  of  things  never  before 
perceived.  He  felt  the  ripples  upon  his  face  and  heard  their 
separate  sounds  as  they  struck.  He  looked  at  the  forest  on 
the  bank  of  the  stream,  saw  the  individual  trees,  the  leaves 
and  the  veining  of  each  leaf — saw  the  very  insects  upon  them: 
the  locusts,  the  brilliant-bodied  flies,  the  gray  spiders  stretch 
ing  their  webs  from  twig  to  twig.  He  noted  the  prismatic 
colors  in  all  the  dewdrops  upon  a  million  blades  of  grass. 
The  humming  of  the  gnats  that  danced  above  the  eddies  of 
the  stream,  the  beating  of  the  dragon-flies'  wings,  the  strokes 
of  the  water-spiders'  legs,  like  oars  which  had  lifted  their 
boat — all  these  made  audible  music.  A  fish  slid  along 
beneath  his  eyes  and  he  heard  the  rush  of  its  body  part 
ing  the  water. 

He  had  come  to  the  surface  facing  down  the  stream;  in  a 
moment  the  visible  world  seemed  to  wheel  slowly  round, 
himself  the  pivotal  point,  and  he  saw  the  bridge,  the  fort, 
the  soldiers  upon  the  bridge,  the  captain,  the  sergeant,  the 
two  privates,  his  executioners.  They  were  in  silhouette 
against  the  blue  sky.  The  shouted  and  gesticulated,  pointing 
at  him.  The  captain  had  drawn  his  pistol,  but  did  not 
fire;  the  others  were  unarmed.  Their  movements  were 
grotesque  and  horrible,  their  forms  gigantic. 

Suddenly  he  heard  a  sharp  report  and  something  struck 
the  water  smartly  within  a  few  inches  of  his  head,  spattering 
his  face  with  spray.  He  heard  a  second  report,  and  saw  one 
of  the  sentinels  with  his  rifle  at  his  shoulder,  a  light  cloud 
of  blue  smoke  rising  from  the  muzzle.  The  man  in  the  water 
saw  the  eye  of  the  man  on  the  bridge  gazing  into  his  own 
through  the  sights  of  the  rifle.  He  observed  that  it  was  a 
gray  eye  and  remembered  having  read  that  gray  eyes  were 


244    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

keenest,  and  that  all  famous  marksmen  had  them.  Never 
theless,  this  one  had  missed. 

A  counter-swirl  had  caught  Farquhar  and  turned  him  half 
round;  he  was  again  looking  into  the  forest  on  the  bank 
opposite  the  fort.  The  sound  of  a  clear,  high  voice  in  a 
monotonous  singsong  now  rang  out  behind  him  and  came 
across  the  water  with  a  distinctness  that  pierced  and  sub 
dued  all  other  sounds,  even  the  beating  of  the  ripples  in  his 
ears.  Although  no  soldier,  he  had  frequented  camps  enough 
to  know  the  dread  significance  of  that  deliberate,  drawling, 
aspirated  chant ;  the  lieutenant  on  shore  was  taking  a  part  in 
the  morning's  work.  How  coldly  and  pitilessly — with  what 
an  even,  calm  intonation,  presaging  and  enforcing  tranquility 
in  the  men — with  what  accurately  measured  intervals  fell 
those  cruel  words: 

"Attention,  ^company!  .  .  .  Shoulder  arms!  .  .  . 
Ready!  .  .  .  Aim!  .  .  .  Fire!" 

Farquhar  dived — dived  as  deeply  as  he  could.  The  water 
roared  in  his  ears  like  the  voice  of  Niagara,  yet  he  heard 
the  dulled  thunder  of  the  volley  and,  rising  again  toward 
the  surface,  met  shining  bits  of  metal,  singularly  flattened, 
oscillating  slowly  downward.  Some  of  them  touched  him  on 
the  face  and  hands,  then  fell  away,  continuing  their  descent. 
One  lodged  between  his  collar  and  neck;  it  was  uncomfort 
ably  warm  and  he  snatched  it  out. 

As  he  rose  to  the  surface,  gasping  for  breath,  he  saw  that 
he  had  been  a  long  time  under  water;  he  was  perceptibly 
farther  down  stream — nearer  to  safety.  The  soldiers  had 
almost  finished  reloading;  the  metal  ramrods  flashed  all  at 
once  in  the  sunshine  as  they  were  drawn  from  the  barrels, 
turned  in  the  air,  and  thrust  into  their  sockets.  The  two 
sentinels  fired  again,  independently  and  ineffectually. 

The  hunted  man  saw  all  this  over  his  shoulder;  he  was 
now  swimming  vigorously  with  the  current.  His  brain  was 
as  energetic  as  his  arms  and  legs;  he  thought  with  the 
rapidity  of  lightning. 

"The  officer,"  he  reasoned,  "will  not  make  that  martinet's 
error  a  second  time.  It  is  as  easy  to  dodge  a  volley  as  a 


AN,  OCCURRENCE  AT  OWL  CREEK  BRIDGE    245 

single  shot.  He  has  probably  already  given  the  command  to 
fire  at  will.  God  help  me,  I  cannot  dodge  them  all!" 

An  appalling  plash  within  two  yards  of  him  was  followed 
by  a  loud,  rushing  sound,  diminuendo,  which  seemed  to 
travel  back  through  the  air  to  the  fort  and  died  in  an  ex 
plosion  which  stirred  the  very  river  to  its  deeps !  A  rising 
sheet  of  water  curved  over  him,  fell  down  upon  him,  blinded 
him,  strangled  him!  The  cannon  had  taken  a  hand  in  the 
game.  As  he  shook  his  head  free  from  the  commotion  of  the 
smitten  water  he  heard  the  deflected  shot  humming  through 
the  air  ahead,  and  in  an  instant  it  was  cracking  and  smashing 
the  branches  in  the  forest  beyond. 

"They  will  not  do  that  again,"  he  thought,  "the  next 
time  they  will  use  a  charge  of  grape.  I  must  keep  my  eye 
upon  the  gun ;  the  smoke  will  apprise  me — the  report  arrives 
too  late;  it  lags  behind  the  missile.  That  is  a  good  gun." 

Suddenly  he  felt  himself  whirled  round  and  round — 
spinning  like  a  top.  The  water,  the  banks,  the  forests,  the 
now  distant  bridge,  fort  and  men — all  were  commingled  and 
blurred.  Objects  were  represented  by  their  colors  only; 
circular  horizontal  streaks  of  color — that  was  all  he  saw. 
He  had  been  caught  in  the  vortex  and  was  being  whirled 
on  with  a  velocity  of  advance  and  gyration  that  made  him 
giddy  and  sick.  In  a  few  moments  he  was  flung  upon  the 
gravel  at  the  foot  of  the  left  bank  of  the  stream — the 
southern  bank — and  behind  a  projecting  point  which  con 
cealed  him  from  his  enemies.  The  sudden  arrest  of  his  mo 
tion,  the  abrasion  of  one  of  his  hands  on  the  gravel,  re 
stored  him,  and  he  wept  with  delight.  He  dug  his  fingers 
into  the  sand,  threw  it  over  himself  in  handfuls  and  audibly 
blessed  it.  It  looked  like  diamonds,  rubies,  emeralds;  he 
could  think  of  nothing  beautiful  which  it  did  not  resemble. 
The  trees  upon  the  bank  were  giant  garden  plants;  he  noted 
a  definite  order  in  their  arrangement,  inhaled  the  fragrance 
of  their  blooms.  A  strange,-  roseate  light  shone  through 
the  spaces  among  their  trunks  and  the  wind  made  in  their 
branches  the  music  of  aeolian  harps.  He  had  no  wish  to 
perfect  his  escape — was  content  to  remain  in  that  enchanting 
spot  until  retaken. 


246   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

A  whiz  and  rattle  of  grapeshot  among  the  branches  high 
above  his  head  roused  him  from  his  dream.  The  baffled 
cannoneer  had  fired  him  a  random  farewell.  He  sprang  to 
his  feet,  rushed  up  the  sloping  bank,  and  plunged  into  the 
forest. 

All  that  day  he  traveled,  laying  his  course  by  the  round 
ing  sun.  The  forest  seemed  interminable;  nowhere  did  he 
discover  a  break  in  it,  not  ever  a  woodman's  road.  He  had 
not  known  that  he  lived  in  so  wild  a  region.  There  was 
something  uncanny  in  the  revelation. 

By  nightfall  he  was  fatigued,  footsore,  famishing.  The 
thought  of  his  wife  and  children  urged  him  on.  At  last  he 
found  a  road  which  led  him  in  what  he  knew  to  be  the  right 
direction.  It  was  as  wide  and  straight  as  a  city  street,  yet  it 
seemed  untraveled.  No  fields  bordered  it,  no  dwelling  any 
where.  Not  so  much  as  the  barking  of  a  dog  suggested 
human  habitation.  The  black  bodies  of  the  trees  formed 
a  straight  wall  on  both  sides,  terminating  on  the  horizon  in 
a  point,  like  a  diagram  in  a  lesson  in  perspective.  Over 
head,  as  he  looked  up  through  this  rift  in  the  wood,  shone 
great  golden  stars  looking  unfamiliar  and  grouped  in  strange 
constellations.  He  was  sure  they  were  arranged  in  some 
order  which  had  a  secret  and  malign  significance.  The  wood 
on  either  side  was  full  of  singular  noises,  among  which — 
once,  twice,  and  again — he  distinctly  heard  whispers  in  an 
unknown  tongue. 

His  neck  was  in  pain  and  lifting  his  hand  to  it  he  found 
it  horribly  swollen.  He  knew  that  it  had  a  circle  of  black 
where  the  rope  had  bruised  it.  His  eyes  felt  congested;  he 
could  no  longer  close  them.  His  tongue  was  swollen  with 
thirst;  he  relieved  its  fever  by  thrusting  it  forward  from  be 
tween  his  teeth  into  the  cold  air.  How  softly  the  turf  had 
carpeted  the  untraveled  avenue — he  could  no  longer  feel  the 
roadway  beneath  his  feet  I 

Doubtless,  despite  his  suffering,  he  had  fallen  asleep  while 
walking,  for  now  he  sees  another  scene — perhaps  he  has 
merely  recovered  from  a  delirium.  He  stands  at  the  gate 
of  his  own  home.  All  is  as  he  left  it,  and  all  bright  and 
beautiful  in  the  morning  sunshine.  He  must  have  traveled 


'AN  OCCURRENCE  AT  OWL  CREEK  BRIDGE    247 

the  entire  night.  As  he  pushes  open  the  gate  and  passes  up 
the  wide  white  walk,  he  sees  a  flutter  of  female  garments; 
his  wife,  looking  fresh  and  cool  and  sweet,  steps  down  from 
the  veranda  to  meet  him.  At  the  bottom  of  the  steps  she 
stands  waiting,  with  a  smile  of  ineffable  joy,  an  attitude 
of  matchless  grace  and  dignity.  Ah,  how  beautiful  she  is! 
He  springs  forward  with  extended  arms.  As  he  is  about  to 
clasp  her  he  feels  a  stunning  blow  upon  the  back  of  the 
neck;  a  blinding  white  light  blazes  all  about  him  with  a 
sound  like  the  shock  of  a  cannon — then  all  is  darkness  and 
silence ! 

Peyton  Farquhar  was  dead ;  his  body,  with  a  broken  neck, 
swung  gently  from  side  to  side  beneath  the  timbers  of 
the  Owl  Creek  bridge. 


THE  RETURN  OF  A  PRIVATE  * 

BY  HAMLIN  GARLAND 

THE  nearer  the  train  drew  toward  La  Crosse,  the 
soberer  the  little  group  of  "vets"  became.  On  the 
long  way  from  New  Orleans  they  had  beguiled  tedium 
with  jokes  and  friendly  chaff;  or  with  planning  with  elabo 
rate  detail  what  they  were  going  to  do  now,  after  the  war. 
A  long  journey,  slowly,  irregularly,  yet  persistently  push 
ing  northward.  When  they  entered  on  Wisconsin  terri 
tory  they  gave  a  cheer,  and  another  when  they  reached 
Madison,  but  after  that  they  sank  into  a  dumb  expectancy. 
Comrades  dropped  off  at  one  or  two  points  beyond,  until 
there  were  only  four  or  five  left  who  were  bound  for  La 
Crosse  County. 

Three  of  them  were  gaunt  and  brown,  the  fourth  was 
gaunt  and  pale,  with  signs  of  fever  and  ague  upon  him.  One 
had  a  great  scar  down  his  temple,  one  limped,  and  they  all 
had  unnaturally  large,  bright  eyes,  showing  emaciation. 
There  were  no  bands  greeting  them  at  the  station,  no  banks 
of  gayly  dressed  ladies  waving  handkerchiefs  and  shouting 
"Bravo!"  as  they  came  in  on  the  caboose  of  a  freight  train 
into  the  towns  that  had  cheered  and  blared  at  them  on  their 
way  to  war.  As  they  looked  out  or  stepped  upon  the  platform 
for  a  moment,  while  the  train  stood  at  the  station,  the  loafers 
looked  at  them  indifferently.  Their  blue  coats,  dusty  and 
grimy,  were  too  familiar  now  to  excite  notice,  much  less  a 
friendly  word.  They  were  the  last  of  the  army  to  return,  and 
the  loafers  were  surfeited  with  such  sights. 

The  train  jogged  forward  so  slowly  that  it  seemed  likely 
to  be  midnight  before  they  should  reach  La  Crosse.  The 

*  By  permission  of  the  author. 

248 


THE  RETURN  OF  A  PRIVATE  249 

little  squad  grumbled  and  swore,  but  it  was  no  use;  the 
train  would  not  hurry,  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  nearly 
two  o'clock  when  the  engine  whistled  "down  brakes." 

All  of  the  group  were  farmers,  living  in  districts  several 
miles  out  of  the  town,  and  all  were  poor. 

"Now,  boys,"  said  Private  Smith,  he  of  the  fever  and  ague, 
"we  are  landed  in  La  Crosse  in  the  night.  We've  got  to  stay 
somewhere  till  mornin'.  Now  I  ain't  got  no  two  dollars  to 
waste  on  a  hotel.  I've  got  a  wife  and  children,  so  I'm  goin* 
to  roost  on  a  bench  and  take  the  cost  of  a  bed  out  of  my 
hide." 

"Same  here,"  put  in  one  of  the  other  men.  "Hide'll  grow 
on  again,  dollars'll  come  hard.  It's  goin'  to  be  mighty  hot 
skirmishin'  to  find  a  dollar  these  days." 

"Don't  think  they'll  be  a  deputation  of  citizens  waitin' 
to  'scort  us  to  a  hotel,  eh?"  said  another.  His  sarcasm  was 
too  obvious  to  require  an  answer. 

Smith  went  on,  "Then  at  daybreak  we'll  start  for  home — 
at  least,  I  will." 

"Well,  I'll  be  dummed  if  I'll  take  two  dollars  out  o'  my 
hide,"  one  of  the  younger  men  said.  "I'm  goin'  to  a  hotel,  ef 
I  don't  never  lay  up  a  cent." 

"That'll  do  f'r  you,"  said  Smith;  "but  if  you  had  a  wife 
an'  three  young  uns  dependin'  on  yeh — " 

"Which  I  ain't,  thank  the  Lord!  and  don't  intend  havin* 
while  the  court  knows  itself." 

The  station  was  deserted,  chill  and  dark,  as  they  came 
into  it  at  exactly  a  quarter  to  two  in  the  morning.  Lit  by 
the  oil  lamps  that  flared  a  dull  red  light  over  the  dingy 
benches,  the  waiting  room  was  not  an  inviting  place.  The 
younger  man  went  off  to  look  up  a  hotel,  while  the  rest  re* 
mained  and  prepared  to  camp  down  on  the  floor  and  benches. 
Smith  was  attended  to  tenderly  by  the  other  men,  who  spread 
their  blankets  on  the  bench  for  him,  and,  by  robbing  them 
selves,  made  quite  a  comfortable  bed,  though  the  narrow 
ness  of  the  bench  made  his  sleeping  precarious. 

It  was  chill,  though  August,  and  the  two  men,  sitting 
with  bowed  heads,  grew  stiff  with  cold  and  weariness,  and 
were  forced  to  rise  now  and  again  and  walk  about  to  warm 


• 


250    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

their  stiffened  limbs.  It  did  not  occur  to  them,  probably, 
to  contrast  their  coming  home  with  their  going  forth,  or 
with  the  coming  home  of  the  generals,  colonels,  or  even 
captains — but  to  Private  Smith,  at  any  rate,  there  came  a 
sickness  at  heart  almost  deadly  as  he  lay  there  on  his  hard 
bed  and  went  over  his  situation. 

In  the  deep  of  the  night,  lying  on  a  board  in  the  town 
where  he  had  enlisted  three  years  ago,  all  elation  and  en 
thusiasm  gone  out  of  him,  he  faced  the  fact  that  with  the 
joy  of  home-coming  was  already  mingled  the  bitter  juice  of 
care.  He  saw  himself  sick,  worn  out,  taking  up  the  work 
on  his  half-cleared  farm,  the  inevitable  mortgage  standing 
ready  with  open  jaw  to  swallow  half  his  earnings.  He  had 
given  three  years  of  his  life  for  a  mere  pittance  of  pay,  and 
now — ! 

Morning  dawned  at  last,  slowly,  with  a  pale  yellow  dome 
of  light  rising  silently  above  the  bluffs,  which  stand  like  some 
huge  storm-devastated  castle,  just  east  of  the  city.  Out  to  the 
left  the  great  river  swept  on  its  massive  yet  silent  way  to  the 
south.  Bluejays  called  across  the  water  from  hillside  to 
hillside  through  the  clear,  beautiful  air,  and  hawks  began  to 
skim  the  tops  of  the  hills.  The  older  men  were  astir  early, 
but  Private  Smith  had  fallen  at  last  into  a  sleep,  and  they 
went  out  without  waking  him.  He  lay  on  his  knapsack,  his 
gaunt  face  turned  toward  the  ceiling,  his  hands  clasped  on 
his  breast,  with  a  curious  pathetic  effect  of  weakness  and 
appeal. 

An  engine  switching  near  woke  him  at  last,  and  he  slowly 
sat  up  and  stared  about.  He  looked  out  of  the  window  and 
saw  that  the  sun  was  lightening  the  hills  across  the  river. 
He  rose  and  brushed  his  hair  as  well  as  he  could,  folded  his 
blankets  up,  and  went  out  to  find  his  companions.  They 
stood  gazing  silently  at  the  river  and  at  the  hills. 

"Looks  natcher'l,  don't  it?"  they  said,  as  he  came  out. 

"That's  what  it  does,"  he  replied.  "An'  it  looks  good. 
D'yeh  see  that  peak?"  He  pointed  at  a  beautiful  sym 
metrical  peak,  rising  like  a  slightly  truncated  cone,  so  high 
that  it  seemed  the  very  highest  of  them  all.  It  was  touched 


THE  RETURN  OF  A  PRIVATE  251 

by  that  morning  sun  and  it  glowed  like  a  beacon,  and  a  light 
scarf  of  gray  morning  fog  was  rolling  up  its  shadowed  side. 

"My  farm's  just  beyond  that.  Now,  if  I  can  only  ketch 
a  ride,  we'll  be  home  by  dinner-time." 

"I'm  talkin'  about  breakfast,"  said  one  of  the  others. 

"I  guess  it's  one  more  meal  o'  hardtack  f'r  me."  said 
Smith. 

They  foraged  around,  and  finally  found  a  restaurant  with 
a  sleepy  old  German  behind  the  counter,  and  procured  some 
coffee,  which  they  drank  to  wash  down  their  hardtack. 

"Time'll  come,"  said  Smith,  holding  up  a  piece  by  the 
corner,  "when  this'll  be  a  curiosity." 

"I  hope  to  God  it  will !  I  bet  I've  chawed  hardtack  enough 
to  shingle  every  house  in  the  coolly.  I've  chawed  it  when  my 
lampers  was  down,  and  when  they  wasn't.  I've  took  it  dry, 
soaked,  and  mashed.  I've  had  it  wormy,  musty,  sour,  and 
blue-mouldy.  I've  had  it  in  little  bits  and  big  bits;  'fore 
coffee  an'  after  coffee.  I'm  ready  f'r  a  change.  I'd  like  t' 
git  holt  jest  about  now  o'  some  of  the  hot  biscuits  my  wife 
c'n  make  when  she  lays  herself  out  f'r  company. 

"Well,  if  you  set  there  gabblin',  you'll  never  see  yer  wife." 

"Come  on,"  said  Private  Smith.  "Wait  a  moment,  boys; 
le's  take  suthin'.  It's  on  me."  He  led  them  to  the  rusty 
tin  dipper  which  hung  on  a  nail  beside  the  wooden  water- 
pail,  and  they  grinned  and  drank.  Then  shouldering  their 
blankets  and  muskets,  which  they  were  "takin'  home  to  the 
boys,"  they  struck  out  on  their  last  march. 

"They  called  that  coffee  Jayvy,"  grumbled  one  of  them, 
but  it  never  went  by  the  road  where  government  Jayvy  re 
sides.  I  reckon  I  know  coffee  from  peas." 

They  kept  together  on  the  road  along  the  turnpike,  and 
up  the  winding  road  by  the  river,  which  they  followed  for 
some  miles.  The  river  was  very  lovely,  curving  down  along 
its  sandy  beds,  pausing  now  and  then  under  broad  bass- 
wood  trees,  or  running  in  dark,  swift,  silent  currents  under 
tangles  of  wild  grape  vines,  and  drooping  alders,  and  haw 
trees.  At  one  of  these  lovely  spots  the  three  vets  sat  down 
on  the  thick  green  sward  to  rest,  "on  Smith's  account."  The 
leaves  of  the  trees  were  as  fresh  and  green  as  in  June,  the 


252    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

jays  called  cheery  greetings  to  them,  and  kingfishers  darted 
to  and  fro  with  swooping,  noiseless  flight. 

"I  tell  yeh,  boys,  this  knocks  the  swamps  of  Loueesiana 
into  kingdom  come." 

"You  bet.  All  they  c'n  raise  down  there  is  snakes,  niggers, 
and  p'rticler  hell." 

"An5  fightin'  men,"  put  in  the  older  man. 

"An'  fightin'  men.  If  I  had  a  good  hook  an'  line  I'd 
sneak  a  pick'rel  out  o'  that  pond.  Say,  remember  that  time 
I  shot  that  alligator—" 

"I  guess  we'd  better  be  crawlin'  along,"  interrupted  Smith, 
rising  and  shouldering  his  knapsack,  with  considerable 
effort,  which  he  tried  to  hide. 

"Say,  Smith,  lemme  give  you  a  lift  on  that." 

"I  guess  I  c'n  manage,"  said  Smith  grimly. 

"Course.  But,  yo'  see,  I  may  not  have  a  chance  right  off 
to  pay  yeh  back  for  the  times  you've  carried  my  gun  and  hull 
caboodle.  Say,  now,  gimme  that  gun,  anyway." 

"All  right,  if  yeh  feel  like  it,  Jim."  Smith  replied,  and 
they  trudged  along  doggedly  in  the  sun,  which  was  getting 
higher  and  hotter  each  half-mile. 

"Ain't  it  queer  there  ain't  no  teams  comin'  along,"  said 
Smith,  after  a  long  silence. 

"Well,  no,  seein's  it's  Sunday." 

"By  jinks,  that's  a  fact.  It  is  Sunday.  I'll  git  home  in 
time  f'r  dinner,  sure!"  he  exulted.  "She  don't  hev  dinner 
usially  till  about  one  on  Sundays."  And  he  fell  into  a 
muse,  in  which  he  smiled. 

"Well,  I'll  git  home  jest  about  six  o'clock,  jest  about  when 
the  boys  are  milkin'  the  cows,"  said  old  Jim  Cranby.  "I'll 
step  into  the  barn,  an'  then  I'll  say,  'Heafc/  why  ain't  this 
milkin'  done  before  this  time  o'  day?'  An'  then  won't  they 
yell!"  he  added,  slapping  his  thigh  in  great  glee. 

Smith  went  on.  *T11  jest  go  up  the  path.  Old  Rover'll 
come  down  the  road  to  meet  me.  He  won't  bark — he'll  know 
me — an'  he'll  come  down  waggin'  his  tail  an'  showin?  his 
teeth.  That's  his  way  of  laughing  An'  so  I'll  walk  up  to  the 
kitchen  door,  an'  I'll  say,  'Dinner  f'r  a  hungry  man!'  An5 
then  she'll  jump  up,  anW 


THE  RETURN  OF  A  PRIVATE  253 

He  couldn't  go  on.  His  voice  choked  at  the  thought  of 
it.  Saunders,  the  third  man,  hardly  uttered  a  word,  but 
walked  silently  behind  the  others.  He  had  lost  his  wife  the 
first  year  he  was  in  the  army.  She  died  of  pneumonia, 
caught  in  the  autumn  rains  while  working  in  the  fields  in 
his  place. 

They  plodded  along  till  at  last  they  came  to  a  parting  of 
the  ways.  To  the  right  the  road  continued  up  the  main 
valley;  to  the  left  it  went  over  the  big  ridge. 

"Well,  boys,"  began  Smith,  as  they  grounded  their  muskets 
and  looked  away  up  the  valley,  "here's  where  we  shake 
hands.  We've  marched  together  a  good  many  miles,  an* 
now  I  s'pose  we're  done." 

"Yes,  I  don't  think  we'll  do  any  more  of  it  f'r  a.  while. 
I  don't  want  to,  I  know." 

"  I  hope  I'll  see  yeh  once  in  a  while,  boys,  to  talk  over  old 
times." 

"Of  course,"  said  Saunders,  whose  voice  trembled  a  little, 
too.  "It  ain't  exactly  like  dyin'."  They  all  found  it  hard 
to  look  at  each  other. 

"But  we'd  ought'r  go  home  with  you,"  said  Cranby. 
"You'll  never  climb  that  ridge  with  all  them  things  on  yer 
back." 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right!  Don't  worry  about  me.  Every  step 
takes  me  nearer  home,  yeh  see.  Well,  good-by,  boys." 

They  shook  hands.    "Good-by.    Good  luck!" 

"Same  to  you.  Lemme  know  how  you  find  things  at 
home." 

"Good-by." 

"Good-by." 

He  turned  once  before  they  passed  out  of  sight,  and  waved 
his  cap,  and  they  did  the  same,  and  all  yelled.  Then 
all  marched  away  with  their  long,  steady,  loping,  veteran 
step.  The  solitary  climber  in  blue  walked  on  for  a  time, 
with  his  mind  filled  with  the  kindness  of  his  comrades,  and 
musing  upon  the  many  wonderful  days  they  had  ,had  to 
gether  in  camp  and  field. 

He  though  of  his  chum,  Billy  Tripp.  Poor  Billy!  A 
"mirrie"  ball  fell  into  his  breast  one  day,  fell  wailing  like  a 


254   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

cat,  and  tore  a  great  ragged  hole  in  his  heart.  He  looked 
forward  to  a  sad  scene  with  Billy's  mother  and  sweetheart. 
They  would  want  to  know  all  about  it.  He  tried  to  recall  all 
that  Billy  had  said,  and  the  particulars  of  it,  but  there  was 
little  to  remember,  just  that  wild  wailing  sound  high  in  the 
air,  a  dull  slap,  a  short,  quick,  expulsive  groan,  and  the  boy 
lay  with  his  face  in  the  dirt  in  the  ploughed  field  they  were 
marching  across. 

That  was  all.  But  all  the  scenes  he  had  since  been  through 
had  not  dimmed  the  horror,  the  terror  of  that  moment,  when 
his  boy  comrade  fell,  with  only  a  breath  between  a  laugh  and 
a  death-groan.  Poor  handsome  Billy!  Worth  millions  of 
dollars  was  his  young  life. 

These  sombre  recollections  gave  way  at  length  to  more 
cheerful  feelings  as  he  began  to  approach  his  home  coolly. 
The  fields  and  houses  grew  familiar,  and  in  one  or  two  he 
was  greeted  by  people  seated  in  the  doorways.  But  he  was 
in  no  mood  to  talk,  and  pushed  on  steadily,  though  he  stopped 
and  accepted  a  drink  of  milk  once  at  the  well-side  of  a 
neighbor. 

The  sun  was  burning  hot  on  that  slope,  and  his  step  grew 
slower,  in  spite  of  his  iron  resolution.  He  sat  down  several 
times  to  rest.  Slowly  he  crawled  up  the  rough,  reddish- 
brown  road,  which  wound  along  the  hill-side,  under  great 
trees,  through  dense  groves  of  jack  oaks,  with  tree-tops  far 
below  him  on  his  left  hand,  and  the  hills  far  above  him  on 
his  right.  He  crawled  along  like  some  minute,  wingless 
variety  of  fly.  / 

He  ate  some  hardtack,  sauced  with  wild  berries,  when  he 
reached  the  summit  of  the  ridge,  and  sat  there  for  some  time, 
looked  down  into  his  home  coolly. 

Sombre,  pathetic  figure !  His  wide,  round,  gray  eyes  gazing 
down  into  the  beautiful  valley,  seeing  and  not  seeing,  the 
splendid  cloud-shadows  sweeping  over  the  western  hills  and 
across  the  green  and  yellow  wheat  far  below.  His  head 
dropped  forward  on  his  palm,  his  shoulders  took  on  a  tired 
stoop,  his  cheek-bones  showed  painfully.  An  observer  might 
have  said,  "He  is  looking  down  upon  his  own  grave." 


THE  RETURN  OF  A  PRIVATE  255 

II 

Sunday  comes  in  a  Western  wheat  harvest  with  such  sweet 
and  sudden  relaxation  to  man  and  beast  that  it  would  be  holy 
for  that  reason,  if  for  no  other,  and  Sundays  are  usually  fair 
in  harvest-time.  As  one  goes  out  into  the  field  in  the  hot 
morning  sunshine,  with  no  sound  abroad  save  the  crickets 
and  the  indescribably  pleasant  silken  rustling  of  the  ripened 
grain,  the  reaper  and  the  very  sheaves  in  the  stubble  seem  to 
be  resting,  dreaming. 

Around  the  house,  in  the  shade  of  the  trees,  the  men  sit, 
smoking,  dozing,  or  reading  the  papers,  while  the  women, 
never  resting,  move  about  at  the  housework.  The  men  eat  on 
Sundays  about  the  same  as  on  other  days,  and  breakfast  is  no 
sooner  over  and  out  of  the  way  than  dinner  begins. 

But  at  the  Smith  farm  there  were  no  men  dozing  or  read 
ing.  Mrs.  Smith  was  alone  with  her  three  children,  Mary, 
nine,  Tommy,  six,  and  little  Ted,  just  past  four.  Her  farm, 
rented  to  a  neighbor,  lay  at  the  head  of  a  coolly  or  narrow 
gully,  made  at  some  far-off  post-glacial  period  by  the  vast  and 
angry  floods  of  water  which  gullied  these  tremendous  fur 
rows  in  the  level  prairie — furrows  so  deep  that  undisturbed 
portions  of  the  original  level  rose  like  hills  on  either  side, 
rose  to  quite  considerable  mountains. 

The  chickens  wakened  her  as  usual  that  Sabbath  morning 
from  dreams  of  her  absent  husband,  from  whom  she  had  not 
heard  for  weeks.  The  shadows  drifted  over  the  hills,  down 
the  slopes,  across  the  wheat,  and  up  the  opposite  wall  in 
leisurely  way,  as  if,  being  Sunday,  they  could  take  it  easy 
also.  The  fowls  clustered  about  the  housewife  as  she  went 
out  into  the  yard.  Fuzzy  little  chickens  swarmed  out  from 
the  coops,  where  their  clucking  and  perpetually  disgruntled 
mothers  tramped  about,  petulantly  thrusting  their  heads 
through  the  spaces  between  the  slats. 

A  cow  called  in  a  deep,  musical  bass,  and  a  calf  answered 
from  a  little  pen  near  by,  and  a  pig  scurried  guiltily  out  of 
the  cabbages.  Seeing  all  this,  seeing  the  pig  in  the  cabbages, 
the  tangle  of  grass  in  the  garden,  the  broken  fence  which  she 
had  mended  again  and  again — the  little  woman,  hardly  more 


256    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

than  a  girl,  sat  down  and  cried.  The  bright  Sabbath  morn 
ing  was  only  a  mockery  without  him  I 

A  few  years  ago  they  had  bought  this  farm,  paying  part, 
mortgaging  the  rest  in  the  usual  way.  Edward  Smith  was  a 
man  of  terrible  energy.  He  worked  "nights  and  Sundays," 
as  the  saying  goes,  to  clear  the  farm  of  its  brush  and  of  its 
insatiate  mortgage !  In  the  midst  of  his  Herculean  struggle 
came  the  call  for  volunteers,  and  with  the  grim  and  unselfish 
devotion  to  his  country  which  made  the  Eagle  Brigade  able  to 
"whip  its  weight  in  wild-cats,"  he  threw  down  his  scythe  and 
grub-axe,  turned  his  cattle  loose,  and  became  a  bluecoated 
cog  in  a  vast  machine  for  killing  men,  and  not  thistles. 
While  the  millionaire  sent  his  money  to  England  for  safe 
keeping,  this  man,  with  his  girl-wife  and  three  babies,  left 
them  on  a  mortgaged  farm,  and  went  away  to  fight  for  an 
idea.  It  was  foolish,  but  it  was  sublime  for  all  that. 

That  was  three  years  before,  and  the  young  wife,  sitting  on 
the  well-curb  on  this  bright  Sabbath  harvest  morning,  was 
righteously  rebellious.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  borne 
her  share  of  the  country's  sorrow.  Two  brothers  had  been 
killed,  the  renter  in  whose  hands  her  husband  had  left  the 
farm  had  proved  a  villain;  one  year  the  farm  had  been  with 
out  crops,  and  now  the  over-ripe  grain  was  waiting  the  tardy 
hand  of  the  neighbor  who  had  rented  it,  and  who  was  cut 
ting  his  own  grain  first. 

About  six  weeks  before,  she  had  received  a  letter  saying, 
"We'll  be  discharged  in  a  little  while."  But  no  other  word 
had  come  from  him.  She  had  seen  by  the  papers  that  his 
army  was  being  discharged,  and  from  day  to  day  other  sol 
diers  slowly  percolated  in  blue  streams  back  into  the  state 
and  country,  but  still  her  hero  did  not  return. 

Each  week  she  had  told  the  children  that  he  was  coming, 
and  she  had  watched  the  road  so  long  that  it  had  become 
unconscious;  and  as  she  stood  at  the  well,  or  by  the  kitchen 
door,  her  eyes  were  fixed  unthinkingly  on  the  road  that 
wound  down  the  coolly. 

Nothing  wears  on  the  human  soul  like  waiting.  If  the 
stranded  mariner,  searching  the  sun-bright  seas,  could  once 
give  up  hope  of  a  ship,  that  horrible  grinding  on  his  brai» 


THE  RETURN  OF  A  PRIVATE  257 

would  cease.  It  was  this  waiting,  hoping,  on  the  edge  of 
despair,  that  gave  Emma  Smith  no  rest. 

Neighbors  said,  with  kind  intentions:  "He's  sick,  maybe, 
an'  can't  start  north  just  yet.  He'll  come  along  one  o'  these 
days." 

"Why  don't  he  write?"  was  her  question,  which  silenced 
them  all.  This  Sunday  morning  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she 
could  not  stand  it  longer.  The  house  seemed  intolerably 
lonely.  So  she  dressed  the  little  ones  in  their  best  calico 
dresses  and  home-made  jackets,  and,  closing  up  the  house, 
set  off  down  the  coolly  to  old  Mother  Gray's. 

"Old  Widder  Gray"  lived  at  the  "mouth  of  the  coolly." 
She  was  a  widow  woman  with  a  large  family  of  stalwart 
boys  and  laughing  girls.  She  was  the  visible  incarnation  of 
hospitality  and  optimistic  poverty.  With  Western  open- 
heartedness  she  fed  every  mouth  that  asked  food  of  her,  and 
worked  herself  to  death  as  cheerfully  as  her  girls  danced  in 
the  neighborhood  harvest  dances. 

She  waddled  down  the  path  to  meet  Mrs.  Smith  with  a 
broad  smile  on  her  face. 

"Oh,  you  little  dears!  Come  right  to  your  granny. 
Gimme  a  kiss!  Come  right  in,  Mis'  Smith.  How  are 
yeh,  anyway?  Nice  mornin',  ain't  it?  Come  in  an'  set 
down.  Everything's  in  a  clutter,  but  that  won't  scare  you 
any." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  best  room,  a  sunny,  square  room, 
carpeted  with  a  faded  and  patched  rag  carpet,  and  papered 
with  white  and  green-striped  wall-paper,  where  a  few  faded 
effigies  of  dead  members  of  the  family  hung  in  variously 
sized  oval  walnut  frames.  The  house  resounded  with  sing 
ing,  laughter,  whistling,  tramping  of  heavy  boots,  and  riot 
ous  scufflings.  Half-grown  boys  came  to  the  door  and 
crooked  their  fingers  at  the  children,  who  ran  out,  and  were 
soon  heard  in  the  midst  of  the  fun. 

"Don't  s'pose  you've  heard  from  Ed?"  Mrs.  Smith  shook 
her  head.  "He'll  turn  up  some  day,  when  you  ain't  lookin' 
for  'm."  The  good  old  soul  had  said  that  so  many  times 
that  poor  Mrs.  Smith  derived  no  comfort  from  it  any  longer. 


258   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"Liz  heard  from  Al  the  other  day.  He's  comin'  some  day 
this  week.  Anyhow,  they  expect  him." 

"Did  he  say  anything  of — " 

"No,  he  didn't,"  Mrs.  Gray  admitted.  "But  then  it  was 
only  a  short  letter,  anyhow.  Al  ain't  much  for  writin',  any 
how.  But  come  out  and  see  my  new  cheese.  I  tell  yeh,  I 
don't  believe  I  ever  had  better  luck  in  my  life.  If  Ed 
should  come,  I  want  you  should  take  him  up  a  piece  of  this 
cheese." 

It  was  beyond  human  nature  to  resist  the  influence  of  that 
noisy,  hearty,  loving  household,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  sing 
ing  and  laughing  the  wife  forgot  her  anxiety,  for  the  time  at 
least,  and  laughed  and  sang  with  the  rest. 

About  eleven  o'clock  a  wagon-load  more  drove  up  to  the 
door,  and  Bill  Gray,  the  widow's  oldest  son,  and  his  whole 
family  from  Sand  Lake  Coolly  piled  out  amid  a  good- 
natured  uproar.  Every  one  talked  at  once,  except  Bill,  who 
sat  in  the  wagon  with  his  wrists  on  his  knees,  a  straw  in  his 
mouth,  and  an  amused  twinkle  in  his  blue  eyes. 

"Ain't  heard  nothin*  o'  Ed,  I  s'pose?"  he  asked  in  a  kind 
of  bellow.  Mrs.  Smith  shook  her  head.  Bill,  with  a  deli 
cacy  very  striking  in  such  a  great  giant,  rolled  his  quid  in 
his  mouth,  and  said : 

"Didn't  know  but  you  had.  I  hear  two  or  three  of  the 
Sand  Lake  boys  are  comin'.  Left  New  Orleens  some  time 
this  week.  Didn't  write  nothin'  about  Ed,  but  no  news  is 
good  news  in  such  cases,  mother  always  says." 

"Well,  go  put  out  yer  team,"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  "an'  go'n 
bring  me  in  some  taters,  an',  Sim,  you  go  see  if  you  c'n  find 
some  corn.  Sadie,  you  put  on  the  water  to  bile.  Come 
now,  hustle  yer  boots,  all  o'  yeh.  If  I  feed  this  yer  crowd, 
we've  got  to  have  some  raw  materials.  If  y'  think  I'm  goin* 
to  feed  yeh  on  pie — you're  jest  mightily  mistaken." 

The  children  went  off  into  the  fields,  the  girls  put  dinner 
on  to  boil,  and  then  went  to  change  their  dresses  and  fix  their 
hair.  "Somebody  might  come,"  they  said. 

"Land  sakes,  /  hope  not!  I  don't  know  where  in  time 
I'd  set  'em,  'less  they'd  eat  at  the  second  table,"  Mrs.  Gray 
laughed,  in  pretended  dismay. 


THE  RETURN  OF  A  PRIVATE  259 

The  two  older  boys,  who  had  served  their  time  in  the 
army,  lay  out  on  the  grass  before  the  house,  and  whittled 
and  talked  desultorily  about  the  war  and  the  crops,  and 
planned  buying  a  threshing-machine.  The  older  girls  and 
Mrs.  Smith  helped  enlarge  the  table  and  put  on  the  dishes, 
talking  all  the  time  in  that  cherry,  incoherent,  and  meaning 
ful  way  a  group  of  such  women  have — a  conversation  to  be 
taken  for  its  spirit  rather  than  for  its  letter,  though  Mrs. 
Gray  at  last  got  the  ear  of  them  all  and  dissertated  at  length 
on  girls. 

"Girls  in  love  ain't  no  use  in  the  whole  blessed  week," 
she  said.  "Sundays  they're  a-lookin'  down  the  road,  ex- 
pectin'  he'll  come.  Sunday  afternoons  they  can't  think  o' 
nothin'  else,  'cause  he's  here.  Monday  mornin's  they're 
sleepy  and  kind  o'  dreamy  and  slimpsy,  and  good  f 'r  nothin' 
on  Tuesday  and  Wednesday.  Thursday  they  git  absent- 
minded,  an*  begin  to  look  off  toward  Sunday  again,  an* 
mope  aroun'  and  let  the  dishwater  git  cold,  right  under  their 
noses.  Friday  they  break  dishes,  an'  go  off  in  the  best  room 
an'  snivel,  an'  look  out  o'  the  winder.  Saturdays  they  have 
queer  spurts  o'  workin'  like  all  p'ssessed,  an'  spurts  o'  friz- 
zin'  their  hair.  An*  Sunday  they  begin  it  all  over  again." 

The  girls  giggled  and  blushed  all  through  this  tirade 
from  their  mother,  their  broad  faces  and  powerful  frames 
anything  but  suggestive  of  lackadaisical  sentiment.  But 
Mrs.  Smith  said: 

"Now,  Mrs.  Gray,  I  hadn't  ought  to  stay  to  dinner. 
You've  got — '' 

"Now  you  set  right  down!  If  any  of  them  girls'  beaux 
comes,  they'll  have  to  take  what's  left,  that's  all.  They  ain't 
s'posed  to  have  much  appetite,  nohow.  No,  you're  goin'  to 
stay  if  they  starve,  an'  they  ain't  no  danger  o'  that." 

At  one  o'clock  the  long  table  was  piled  with  boiled  pota 
toes,  cords  of  boiled  corn  on  the  cob,  squash  and  pumpkin 
pies,  hot  biscuits,  sweet  pickles,  bread  and  butter,  and  honey. 
Then  one  of  the  girls  took  down  a  conch-shell  from  a  nail, 
and  going  to  the  door,  blew  a  long,  fine,  free  blast,  that 
showed  there  was  no  weakness  of  lungs  in  her  ample  chest 


260   THE  GREAT  MOD^RN^  AMERICAN  STORIES, 

Then  the  children  came  out  of  the  forest  of  corn,  out  of  the 
creek,  out  of  the  loft  of  the  barn,  and  out  of  the  garden. 

"They  come  to  their  feed  f 'r  all  the  world  jest  like  the  pigs 
when  y'  holler  'poo-eel'  See  'em  scoot  I"  laughed  Mrs. 
Gray,  every  wrinkle  on  her  face  shining  with  delight. 

The  men  shut  up  their  jack-knives,  and  surrounded  the 
horse-trough  to  souse  their  faces  in  the  cold,  hard  water,  and 
in  a  few  moments  the  table  was  filled  with  a  merry  crowd, 
and  a  row  of  wistful-eyed  youngsters  circled  the  kitchen  wall, 
where  they  stood  first  on  one  leg  and  then  on  the  other,  in 
impatient  hunger. 

"Now  pitch  in,  Mrs.  Smith,"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  presiding 
over  the  table.  "You  know  these  men  critters.  They'll  eat 
every  grain  of  it,  if  yeh  give  'em  a  chance.  I  swan,  they're 
made  o'  India-rubber,  their  stomachs  is,  I  know  it." 

"Haf  to  eat  to  work,"  said  Bill,  gnawing  a  cob  with  a 
swift,  circular  motion  that  rivalled  a  corn-sheller  in  results. 

"More  like  workin'  to  eat,"  put  in  one  of  the  girls,  with  a 
giggle.  "More  eat  'n  work  with  you." 

"You  needn't  say  anything,  Net.  Any  one  that'll  eat 
seven  ears — " 

"I  didn't  no  such  thing.  You  piled  your  cobs  on  my 
plate." 

"That'll  do  to  tell  Ed  Varney.  It  won't  go  down  here 
where  we  know  yeh." 

"Good  land!  Eat  all  yeh  want!  They's  plenty  more  in 
the  fiel's,  but  I  can't  afford  to  give  you  young  uns  tea.  The 
tea  is  for  us  women-folks,  and  'specially  f'r  Mis'  Smith  an' 
Bill's  wife.  We're  a-goin'  to  tell  fortunes  by  it." 

One  by  one  the  men  filled  up  and  shoved  back,  and  one  by 
one  the  children  slipped  into  their  places,  and  by  two  o'clock 
the  women  alone  remained  around  the  debris-covered  table, 
sipping  their  tea  and  telling  fortunes. 

As  they  got  well  down  to  the  grounds  in  the  cup,  they 
shook  them  with  a  circular  motion  in  the  hand,  and  then 
turned  them  bottom-side  up  quickly  in  the  saucer,  then 
twirled  them  three  or  four  times  one  way,  and  three  or  four 
times  the  other,  during  a  breathless  pause.  Then  Mrs.  Gray 


THE  RETURN,  OF  A  PRIVATE  261 

lifted  the  cup,  and,  gazing  into  it  with  profound  gravity,  pro 
nounced  the  impending  fate. 

It  must  be  admitted  that,  to  a  critical  observer,  she  had 
abundant  preparation  for  hitting  close  to  the  mark,  as  when 
she  told  the  girls  that  "somebody  was  comin'."  "It's  a 
man,"  she  went  on  gravely.  "He  is  cross-eyed — " 

"Oh,  you  hush  1"  cried  Nettie. 

"He  has  red  hair,  and  is  death  on  b'iled  corn  and  hot 
biscuit." 

The  others  shrieked  with  delight. 

"But  he's  goin'  to  get  the  mitten,  that  red-headed  feller  is, 
for  I  see  another  feller  comin'  up  behind  him." 

"Oh,  lemme  see,  lemme  see!"  cried  Nettie. 

"Keep  off,"  said  the  priestess,  with  a  lofty  gesture.  "His 
hair  is  black.  He  don't  eat  so  much,  and  he  works  more." 

The  girls  exploded  in  a  shriek  of  laughter,  and  pounded 
their  sister  on  the  back. 

At  last  came  Mrs.  Smith's  turn,  and  she  was  trembling 
with  excitement  as  Mrs.  Gray  again  composed  her  jolly  face 
to  what  she  considered  a  proper  solemnity  of  expression. 

"Somebody  is  comin*  to  you"  she  said,  after  a  long  pause. 
"He's  got  a  musket  on  his  back.  He's  a  soldier.  He's  al 
most  here.  See?" 

She  pointed  at  two  little  tea-stems,  which  really  formed  a 
faint  suggestion  of  a  man  with  a  musket  on  his  back.  He 
had  climbed  nearly  to  the  edge  of  the  cup.  Mrs.  Smith  grew 
pale  with  excitement.  She  trembled  so  she  could  hardly 
hold  the  cup  in  her  hand  as  she  gazed  into  it. 

"It's  Ed,"  cried  the  old  woman.  "He's  on  the  way  home. 
Heavens  an'  earth!  There  he  is  now!"  She  turned  and 
waved  her  hand  out  toward  the  road.  They  rushed  to  the 
door  to  look  where  she  pointed. 

A  man  in  a  blue  coat,  with  a  musket  011  his  back,  was 
toiling  slowly  up  the  hill  on  the  sun-bright,  dusty  road, 
toiling  slowly,  with  bent  head  half  hidden  by  a  heavy  knap 
sack.  So  tired  it  seemed  that  walking  was  indeed  a  process 
of  falling.  So  eager  to  get  home  he  would  not  stop,  would 
not  look  aside,  but  plodded  on,  amid  the  cries  of  the  locusts, 
the  welcome  of  the  crickets,  and  the  rustle  of  the  yellow 


262    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

wheat.     Getting  back  to  God's  country,  and  his  wife  and 
babies ! 

Laughing,  crying,  trying  to  call  him  and  the  children  at 
the  same  time,  the  little  wife,  almost  hysterical,  snatched  her 
hat  and  ran  out  into  the  yard.  But  the  soldier  had  disap 
peared  over  the  hill  into  the  hollow  beyond,  and,  by  the 
time  she  had  found  the  children,  he  was  too  far  away  for 
her  voice  to  reach  him.  And,  besides,  she  was  not  sure  it 
was  her  husband,  for  he  had  not  turned  his  head  at  their 
shouts.  This  seemed  so  strange.  Why  didn't  he  stop  to 
rest  at  his  old  neighbor's  house?  Tortured  by  hope  and 
doubt,  she  hurried  up  the  coolly  as  fast  as  she  could  push 
the  baby  wagon,  the  blue-coated  figure  just  ahead  pushing 
steadily,  silently  forward  up  the  coolly. 

When  the  excited,  panting  little  group  came  in  sight  of 
the  gate  they  saw  the  blue-coated  figure  standing,  leaning 
upon  the  rough  rail  fence,  his  chin  on  his  palms,  gazing  at 
the  empty  house.  His  knapsack,  canteen,  blankets,  and 
musket  lay  upon  the  dusty  grass  at  his  feet. 

He  was  like  a  man  lost  in  a  dream.  His  wide,  hungry 
eyes  devoured  the  scene.  The  rough  lawn,  the  little  un- 
painted  house,  the  field  of  clear  yellow  wheat  behind  it,  down 
across  which  streamed  the  sun,  now  almost  ready  to  toucty 
the  high  hill  to  the  west,  the  crickets  crying  merrily,  a  cat  on 
the  fence  near  by,  dreaming,  unmindful  of  the  stranger  in 
blue- 
How  peaceful  it  all  was.  O  God!  How  far  removed 
from  all  camps,  hospitals,  battle  lines.  A  little  cabin  in  a 
Wisconsin  coolly,  but  it  was  majestic  in  its  peace.  How  did 
he  ever  leave  it  for  those  years  of  tramping,  thirsting,  killing  ? 
Trembling,  weak  with  emotion,  her  eyes  on  the  silent 
figure,  Mrs.  Smith  hurried  up  to  the  fence.  Her  feet  made 
no  noise  in  the  dust  and  grass,  and  they  were  close  upon  him 
before  he  knew  of  them.  The  oldest  boy  ran  a  little  ahead. 
He  will  never  forget  that  figure,  that  face.  It  will  always 
remain  as  something  epic,  that  return  of  the  private.  He 
fixed  his  eyes  on  the  pale  face  covered  with  a  ragged  beard. 
"Who  are  you,  sir?"  asked  the  wife,  or,  rather,  started  to 
ask,  for  he  turned,  stood  a  moment,  and  then  cried: 


THE  RETURN  OF  A  PRIVATE  263 

"Emma!" 

"Edward!" 

The  children  stood  in  a  curious  row  to  see  their  mother 
kiss  this  bearded,  strange  man,  the  elder  girl  sobbing  sym 
pathetically  with  her  mother.  Illness  had  left  the  soldier 
partly  deaf,  and  this  added  to  the  strangeness  of  his  manner. 

But  the  youngest  child  stood  away,  even  after  the  girl  had 
recognized  her  father  and  kissed  him.  -  The  man  turned  then 
to  the  baby,  and  said  in  a  curiously  unpaternal  tone : 

"Come  here,  my  little  man;  don't  you  know  me?"  But 
the  baby  backed  away  under  the  fence  and  stood  peering  at 
him  critically. 

"My  little  man!"  What  meaning  in  those  words!  This 
baby  seemed  like  some  other  woman's  child,  and  not  the 
infant  he  had  left  in  his  wife's  arms.  The  war  had  come 
between  him  and  his  baby — he  was  only  a  strange  man  to 
him,  with  big  eyes ;  a  soldier,  with  mother  hanging  to  his  arm, 
and  talking  in  a  loud  voice. 

"And  this  is  Tom,"  the  private  said,  drawing  the  oldest 
boy  to  him.  "He'll  come  and  see  me.  He  knows  his  poor 
old  pap  when  he  comes  home  from  the  war." 

The  mother  heard  the  pain  and  reproach  in  his  voice  and 
hastened  to  apologize. 

"You've  changed  so,  Ed.  He  can't  know  yeh.  This  is 
papa,  Teddy;  come  and  kiss  him — Tom  and  Mary  do. 
Come,  won't  you?"  But  Teddy  still  peered  through  the 
fence  with  solemn  eyes,  well  out  of  reach.  He  resembled  a 
half-wild  kitten  that  hesitates,  studying  the  tones  of  one's 
voice. 

"I'll  fix  him,"  said  the  soldier,  and  sat  down  to  undo  his 
knapsack,  out  of  which  he  drew  three  enormous  and  very 
red  apples.  After  giving  one  to  each  of  the  older  children, 
he  said: 

"Now  I  guess  he'll  come.  Eh,  my  little  man?  Now  come 
see  your  pap." 

Teddy  crept  slowly  under  the  fence,  assisted  by  the  over- 
zealous  Tommy,  and  a  moment  later  was  kicking  and  squall 
ing  in  his  father's  arms.  Then  they  entered  the  house,  into 
the  sitting  room,  poor,  bare,  art-forsaken  little  room,  too, 


264    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

with  its  rag  carpet,  its  square  clock,  and  its  two  or  three 
chromos  and  pictures  from  Harper's  Weekly  pinned  about. 

"Emma,  I'm  all  tired  out,"  said  Private  Smith,  as  he 
flung  himself  down  on  the  carpet  as  he  used  to  do,  while  his 
wife  brought  a  pillow  to  put  under  his  head,  and  the  children 
stood  about  munching  their  apples. 

"Tommy,  you  run  and  get  me  a  pan  of  chips,  and  Mary, 
you  get  the  tea-kettle  on,  and  I'll  go  and  make  some  biscuit." 

And  the  soldier  talked.  Question  after  question  he  poured 
forth  about  the  crops,  the  cattle,  the  renter,  the  neighbor.  He 
slipped  his  heavy  government  brogan  shoes  off  his  poor,  tired, 
blistered  feet,  and  lay  out  with  utter,  sweet  relaxation.  He 
was  a  free  man  again,  no  longer  a  soldier  under  command. 
At  supper  he  stopped  once,  listened  and  smiled.  "That's 
old  Spot.  I  know  her  voice.  I  s'pose  that's  her  calf  out 
there  in  the  pen.  I  can't  milk  her  to-night,  though.  I'm 
too  tired.  But  I  tell  you,  I'd  like  a  drink  o'  her  milk. 
What's  become  of  old  Rove?" 

"He  died  last  winter.  Poisoned,  I  guess."  There  was  a 
moment  of  sadness  for  them  all.  It  was  some  time  before  the 
husband  spoke  again,  in  a  voice  that  trembled  a  little. 

"Poor  old  feller!  He'd  'a*  known  me  half  a  mile  away. 
I  expected  him  to  come  down  the  hill  to  meet  me.  It  'ud 
'a'  been  more  like  comin'  home  if  I  could  'a'  seen  him  comin' 
down  the  road  an'  waggin'  his  tail,  an'  laughin'  that  way  he 
had.  I  tell  yeh,  it  kind  o'  took  hold  o'  me  to  see  the  blinds 
down  an'  the  house  shut  up." 

"But,  yeh  see,  we — we  expected  you'd  write  again  'fore 
you  started.  And  then  we  thought  we'd  see  you  if  you  did 
come,"  she  hastened  to  explain. 

"Well,  I  ain't  worth  a  cent  on  writin'.  Besides,  it's  just 
as  well  yeh  didn't  know  when  I  was  comin'.  I  tell  you,  it 
sounds  good  to  hear  them  chickens  out  there,  an'  turkeys,  an' 
the  crickets.  Do  you  know  they  don't  have  just  the  same  kind 
o'  crickets  down  South?  Who's  Sam  hired  t'  help  cut  yer 
grain?" 

"The  Ramsey  boys." 

"Looks  like  a  good  crop;  but  I'm  afraid  I  won't  do  much' 
gettin'  it  cut.  This  cussed  fever  an'  ague  has  got  me  down 


THE  RETURN  OF  A  PRIVATE  265 

pretty  low.  I  don't  know  when  I'll  get  rid  of  it.  I'll  bet 
IVe  took  twenty-five  pounds  of  quinine  if  I've  taken  a  bit. 
Gimme  another  biscuit.  I  tell  yeh,  they  taste  good,  Emma. 
I  ain't  had  anything  like  it — say,  if  you'd  'a'  hear'd  me 
braggin'  to  th'  boys  about  your  butter  'n'  biscuits  I'll  bet 
your  ears  'ud  'a'  burnt." 

The  private's  wife  colored  with  pleasure.  "Oh,  you're 
always  a-braggin'  about  your  things.  Everybody  makes  good 
butter." 

"Yes;  old  lady  Snyder,  for  instance." 

"Oh,  well,  she  ain't  to  be  mentioned.     She's  Dutch." 

"Or  old  Mis'  Snively.  One  more  cup  o'  tea,  Mary.  That's 
my  girl !  I'm  feeling  better  already.  I  just  b'lieve  the  mat 
ter  with  me  is,  I'm  starved." 

This  was  a  delicious  hour,  one  long  to  be  remembered. 
They  were  like  lovers  again.  But  their  tenderness,  like  that 
of  a  typical  American  family,  found  utterance  in  tones,  rather 
than  in  words.  He  was  praising  her  when  praising  her  bis 
cuit,  and  she  knew  it.  They  grew  soberer  when  he  showed 
where  he  had  been  struck,  one  ball  burning  the  back  of  his 
hand,  one  cutting  away  a  lock  of  hair  from  his  temple,  and 
one  passing  through  the  calf  of  his  leg.  The  wife  shuddered 
to  think  how  near  she  had  come  to  being  a  soldier's  widow. 
Her  waiting  no  longer  seemed  hard.  This  sweet,  glorious 
hour  effaced  it  all. 

Then  they  rose,  and  all  went  out  into  the  garden  and 
down  to  the  barn.  He  stood  beside  her  while  she  milked  old 
Spot.  They  began  to  plan  fields  and  crops  for  next  year. 

His  farm  was  weedy  and  encumbered,  a  rascally  renter  had 
run  away  with  his  machinery  (departing  between  two  days), 
his  children  needed  clothing,  the  years  were  coming  upon  him, 
he  was  sick  and  emaciated,  but  his  heroic  soul  did  not  quail. 
With  the  same  courage  with  which  he  had  faced  his  Southern 
march  he  entered  upon  a  still  more  hazardous  future. 

Oh,  that  mystic  hour!  The  pale  man  with  big  eyes  stand 
ing  there  by  the  well,  with  his  young  wife  by  his  side.  The 
vast  moon  swinging  above  the  eastern  peaks,  the  cattle  wind 
ing  down  the  pasture  slopes  with  jangling  bells,  the  crickets 
singing,  the  stars  blooming  out  sweet  and  far  and  serene; 


266   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

the  katydids  rhythmically  calling,  the  little  turkeys  crying 
querulously,  as  they  settled  to  roost  in  the  poplar  tree  near 
the  open  gate.  The  voices  at  the  well  drop  lower,  the  little 
ones  nestle  in  their  father's  arms  at  last,  and  Teddy  falls 
asleep  there. 

The  common  soldier  of  the  American  volunteer  army  had 
returned.  His  war  with  the  South  was  over,  and  his  fight, 
his  daily  running  fight  with  nature  and  against  the  injus 
tice  of  his  fellow-men,  was  begun  again. 


STRIKING  AN  AVERAGE  * 
By  HENRY  B.  FULLER 


FAR,  so  good/'  said  Michael  A.  Brannigan,  lead- 
ing  his  young  charge  away  from  the  sloppy  bar. 
"But  you  don't  want  to  stop  here.  It  ain't  enough 
to  drink  with  the  boys;  you  ought  to  dance  now  with  some 
of  the  girls." 

"All  right,"  returned  Jameson  Bates  with  great  readi 
ness.  He  was  "mixing,"  and  it  was  neither  time  nor  place 
for  anything  like  half-measures. 

The  air  of  the  hall  was  hazy  with  dust  and  smoke.  Now 
and  then  came  a  whiff  from  across  a  beer-sodden  area  of 
sav/dust.  The  band,  up  in  a  dingy  corner  of  the  gallery, 
was  just  beginning  on  Casey  Would  Dance  with  the  Straw 
berry  Blonde. 

"You've  got  it  in  you,"  said  Brannigan,  eying  the  toe  that 
Jameson  was  beating  upon  the  battered  floor. 

"Never  waltzed  before  in  my  life!"  returned  Jameson  with 
a  grimace. 

"You  didn't?"  queried  his  guide  with  a  note  of  disap 
pointment. 

"But  I'm  going  to  now,"  finished  Jameson. 

"Can  you?"  asked  the  other  doubtfully. 

"I  guess  so.  It's  always  looked  easy.  For  the  matter  of 
that,  never  ran  for  alderman  before.  Ain't  finding  that  very 
hard,  either.'* 

"You'll  get  through  all  right,"  said  Brannigan,  grinning 
in  the  young  fellow's  smooth,  fair  face. 

"Sure  thing,"  returned  Jameson. 

*  By  permission  of  the  author  and  Curtis  Publishing  Company. 

26f 


268    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

The  Sons  and  Daughters  of  the  Golden  Signet  were  just 
taking  the  floor  again. 

"Let  me  introduce  you  to  a  girl  or  two,"  said  Brannigan. 

"Let  me  introduce  meself,"  returned  Jameson. 

Edgar  Jameson  Bates  was  twenty-five  years  old.  He  was 
six  feet  tall,  weighed  one  hundred  and  seventy  pounds,  was 
sound  as  a  nut  and  strong  as  an  ox.  He  had  been  centre 
rush  at  Yale,  had  hunted  the  Rocky  Mountain  sheep  up 
beyond  Calgary,  and  for  the  past  year  and  a  half  had  been 
more  or  less  engaged  in  the  practice  of  law.  But  Jameson 
was  never  meant  to  quibble  and  squabble;  nor  had  he  ever 
felt  drawn,  like  his  elder  brother,  into  the  "business" — into 
the  great  concern  that  their  father  had  originated  and  devel 
oped  and  had  made  a  household  word  the  country  through. 
Something  more,  something  different  was  needed  to  give  out 
let  to  his  superabundant  energies.  His  nibble  at  the  law  had 
brought  him  within  range  of  the  City  Voters'  League  and 
the  Property  Owners'  Protective  Association,  and  other  or 
ganizations  that  were  working  toward  the  amelioration  of 
local  conditions.  Presently  came  the  day  when  Jameson  felt 
the  sudden  impulse  to  put  his  young  strength  to  the  wheel 
and  to  help  lift  the  municipal  coach  from  the  mire.  "I'll 
join  the  Board  of  Aldermen,"  he  said. 

Michael  Aloysius  Brannigan  welcomed  the  new  recruit 
gladly;  at  last  the  ward  might  be  got  out  of  the  hands  of  the 
condemned  Republicans.  What  Michael  Brannigan  said 
was  likely  to  go.  He  was  the  captain  of  his  ward  and  an 
important  wheel  in  the  general  municipal  machinery.  He 
was  a  city  boiler  inspector.  He  drew  the  salary,  and  the 
work  was  done  by  somebody  else — or  by  nobody.  He  him 
self  did  not  know  a  flue  from  a  flange  and  made  but  a  pre 
tense  of  keeping  a  record  of  inspections.  Now  and  then  a 
steam  laundry  blew  up  and  made  a  page  for  the  papers.  But 
if  Michael  did  not  give  satisfaction  in  this  cramped  field, 
he  succeeded  admirably  in  a  wider  one;  he  was  never  so 
happy  as  when  managing  for  the  general  body  of  citizens 
those  concerns  which  the  general  body  of  citizens  should 
have  managed  for  themselves.  Michael,  in  short,  was  one 
of  the  muddy  ditches  through  which  the  ardent  young  patriot 


STRIKING  AN  AVERAGE  269 

must  flounder  as  best  he  may  if  he  desires  to  enter  the  fair 
field  of  public  service  that  lies  beyond. 

Jameson  was  too  robust  to  be  fastidious ;  he  saw,  moreover, 
that  the  game  must  be  played  with  the  men  actually  on  the 
board.  He  applied  to  Michael  Aloysius.  The  great  man's 
first  response  was  non-committal.  However,  he  invited  the 
neophyte  to  mingle  with  the  Sons  and  Daughters.  If  he 
turned  out  a  good  "mixer"  he  might  do. 

"That  girl  in  red  is  the  one  for  me,"  declared  Jameson. 

Brannigan  had  looked  at  the  girl  in  red  first — involunta 
rily.  Jameson  had  seen  him  do  so.  Brannigan  was  not 
aware  of  this. 

"Yes,  the  one  in  red,"  repeated  Jameson.  "She's  a  beaut. 
Watch  me." 

Jameson  had  caught  the  tone  of  the  assembly  quite  miracu 
lously.  After  that,  to  catch  the  step  of  the  dance  was  but  a 
trifle.  He  walked  over  briskly  to  the  girl  in  red  and  made 
known  his  modest  ambition.  She  seemed  a  vigorous,  posi 
tive  creature,  and  could  pull  him  through,  as  he  felt  with 
relief,  if  anybody  could.  As  they  stepped  out  to  take  the 
floor  another  young  man,  with  heavy  shoulders,  a  super 
abundant  mustache  and  a  careful  brown  scallop  on  his  fore 
head,  turned  away  forestalled  and  thwarted. 

"No  previous  claim?"  smiled  Jameson,  gathering  her  fin 
gers  in  his  big,  smooth  hand.  These  were  smooth,  too — as 
well-cared-for  and  ladylike  as  one  might  wish. 

"First  come,"  replied  the  girl,  lifting  her  black  eyebrows 
with  quite  an  air.  Perhaps,  after  all,  she  entertained  a 
slight  grudge  against  the  other  for  his  heavy,  lumbering 
tardiness. 

"Time  counts,"  said  Jameson  sententiously,  as  he  took  an 
opening  step. 

"Well,  let's  keep  it,"  she  replied  briefly.  The  first  false 
start  rectified,  she  carefully  laid  her  face — a  face  framed  in 
a  wide  flange  of  jet-black  hair — against  his  shoulder;  clearly 
she  was  meaning  to  abandon  herself  completely  to  the  melt 
ing  rhythm  of  the  cornet,  the  trombone,  the  two  fiddles  and 
the  flute.  Jameson  accommodated  himself  as  well  as  he 
could  to  the  creakle  and  swish  of  her  satin  skirt  trimmed  li>- 


270    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

erally  yet  inexpensively  with  wide-meshed  black  lace,  and 
kept  his  feet  out  of  tangle  with  more  or  less  success.  Every 
body  in  Harmony  Hall  was  watching  him;  not  a  soul  there 
but  knew  who  he  was  and  what  he  was  after.  He  himself 
had  never  before  seen  a  single  one  of  the  lot,  save  Brannigan 
— and  him  but  once.  "Are  they  for  me,  or  ag'in  me?"  won 
dered  Jameson  as  he  looked  out  over  the  top  of  the  girl's  hair. 

He  kept  it  up  fearlessly.  He  had  a  natural  sense  of 
rhythm  and  had  always  been  light  on  his  feet.  But  the 
deuce  seemed  in  it — he  was  barely  holding  his  own.  There 
was  a  titter  from  a  girl  whom  he  might  have  asked  first,  but 
hadn't,  and  a  single  derisive  note  of  laughter  from  the  mus 
cular  young  man  with  the  scalloped  hair.  "So  it  goes," 
muttered  Jameson;  "if  I  were  doing  well,  they'd  like  it  still 
less." 

His  partner  suddenly  lifted  her  flaring  frame  of  hair  from 
his  shoulder  and  looked  across  that  wide  ridge  with  angry 
eyes.  She  was  not  to  be  balked  in  her  triumph;  if  the  per 
formance  called  for  the  aid  of  a  second  mind,  that  mind  was 
here.  She  set  her  straight  lips  firmly  and  took  command. 
Respect,  reluctant  yet  complete,  ruled  once  more  through  the 
place. 

"Well,  you're  a  wonder,"  said  Jameson  as  they  toppled 
suddenly  into  a  pair  of  rough  chairs  set  against  the  wall. 
"You  pulled  me  through  in  great  shape." 

"I  came  here  to  dance"  she  returned. 

Her  tone  might  have  implied  either  reproach  or  determi 
nation. 

"And  haven't  you?"  he  asked.  "You  could  dance  on  a 
cinder-pile.  You  could  dance  with  a  clothes-horse.  What 
is  your  name?" 

"Well,  that's  a  question!     What  difference  does  it  make?" 

"What  difference?  The  name  of  the  first  young  lady  I 
ever  danced  with  in  my  life?" 

She  stared  at  him. 

"Well,  you  have  got  the  nerve!" 

"I  need  it  in  this  business.  What  kind  of  an  office  do  you 
Work  in?" 

Such  flattery  was  irresistible. 


STRIKING  AN  AVERAGE  271 

"My  name  is  Marguerite  Ryan,"  she  answered  with  a  toss 
of  the  head. 

"  'Marguerite !'  "  he  replied,  throwing  up  his  own.  "Non 
sense!  Neyer  in  the  world  1" 

"My  name  is  Marguerite  Ryan,"  she  reiterated.  "What 
do  you  mean  by  telling  me  it  isn't?" 

"Come,  now,"  insinuated  Jameson  very  quietly;  "your 
mother  calls  you  Maggie;  you  know  she  does.  And  your  lit 
tle  brother  calls  you  Mag." 

The  girl's  eyes  sparkled  angrily.  'You  leave  my  mother 
out.  My  name,"  she  repeated,  "is  Marguerite — " 

"Your  name,"  interrupted  Jameson  in  a  calm,  gentle  tone, 
"is  Margaret.  It's  a  very  beautiful  one,  and  one  that  be 
comes  you.  Don't  let  anybody  change  it;  don't  let  anybody 
tinker  with  it.  Margaret  Ryan,"  he  repeated,  looking  out 
with  seeming  abstraction  upon  the  clearing  floor  in  front  of 
them;  "what  could  be  better?  What  sweeter?  What  more 
musical?" 

The  girl  gave  a  gasp.  He  had  ruffled  her  with  one  hand, 
it  seemed,  to  smooth  her  with  the  other.  He  had  threatened 
to  humble  her,  yet  had  raised  her  higher  than  she  stood  be 
fore.  Taking  it  all  around,  he  had  let  her  off  rather  easily. 

"Margaret  Ryan,  if  you  say  so,"  she  acquiesced  presently. 
"What's  yours?" 

Jameson  smiled  as  he  answered.  Everybody  in  the  hall 
knew  his  name,  this  girl  included;  everybody  in  the  city 
knew  it.  The  entire  community  recognized  in  his  father, 
Granger  Bates,  the  head  and  front  of  one  of  the  great  indus 
trial  concerns  of  the  West,  the  employer  of  thousands  of 
hands  and  a  prime  mover  in  manufacture  and  transportation. 
Not  one  whit  behind  was  his  wife,  a  social  light  par  excel 
lence;  she  was  the  president  of  the  Woman's  National 
League;  she  was  the  "Susan  Lathrop  Bates"  whose  name 
stood  carved  in  imperishable  stone  among  the  gables  and 
gargoyles  that  shut  in  the  campus  of  the  University;  and  on 
more  than  one  memorable  occasion  she  had  led,  with  a  state- 
liness  and  magnificance  that  had  intimidated  her  son  himself, 
the  grand  march  at  the  Charity  Ball.  As  for  his  own  deeds 
of  prowess,  were  they  not  written  in — 


272    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"'Jameson!'"  cried  the  girl  mockingly.  "Nonsense! 
Never  in  the  world!'' 

"My  name,"  he  reiterated,  in  her  own  solemn  tone  of  ex 
postulation,  "is  Edgar  Jameson  Bates — " 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!"  she  retorted  quickly.  "Your  father 
calls  you  Jim,  you  know  he  does.  And  your  mother  calls 
you  Jimmy!" 

"Guessed  it  the  first  shot!"  cried  Jameson,  delighted. 
"You're  a  winner — no  mistake!" 

"What  is  she  like?" 

"Mother?"  Jameson  shrugged  his  shoulders;  this  girl 
knew  all  about  his  mother.  The  great  lady's  picture  was  in 
the  public  prints  once  a  month  throughout  the  year,  and 
daily  paragraphs  were  made  of  her  simplest  doings.  "Oh," 
he  replied,  humoring  the  other's  fantasy,  "she's  a  solid, 
husky  person  like  me — no  nonsense  about  her." 

"Well,  I'd  let  somebody  else  say  it." 

"What!  can't  I  speak  a  good  word  for  my  own  mother?" 

"And  two  for  yourself." 

"And  two  hundred  for  you." 

"I  haven't  heard  them  yet." 

"You're  going  to." 

"What  for?     To  bring  my  uncle  'round?" 

"Your  uncle?     Who's  he?" 

"Didn't  I  see  him  send  you  over  to  me?" 

"What!  Is  Michael  Brannigan  your  uncle?  I  never 
knew  it — I  swear  I  didn't.  I  came  of  my  own  accord. 
'There's  some  one  girl  here,'  thought  I,  'who  ought  to  be 
taken  out  first,  and  who  expects  to  be,  and  who  deserves  to 
be;  one  who's  prettier  than  any  of  the  others,  and  more 
spirited,  and  more  stylish — '  " 

"That  will  do  to  say!"  interrupted  Margaret,  waving  aside 
a  superfluous  finish. 

"That's  why  I  say  it.  Well,  what  kind  of  an  office  do  you 
work  in?" 

"What  makes  you  think  I  work  in  any  kind?"  asked  the 
girl,  now  almost  wishing  that  she  didn't. 

"Why,  you  don't  suppose  I  thought  you  worked  in  a  de 
partment  store,  do  you?" 


STRIKING  AN  AVERAGE  273 

This  appreciation  charmed  her.  "Well,  if  you  want  to 
know,  I'm  in  the  County  Building — in  the  Recorder's  depart 
ment." 

"I  understand,"  said  Jameson.  "You  write  all  day  in 
those  big  books." 

"And  what  do  you  do?" 

"I'm  a  lawyer — sort  o'.  Perhaps  you  copy  some  of  my 
things  now  and  then.  I'm  death  on  deeds." 

"And  on  words,  too,  eh?" 

"I'm  not  so  shy  there,  either." 

"Well,  if  you  want  to  get  this  nomination  it  will  take  more 
than  talk." 

"What  nomination?"  asked  Jameson  innocently. 

"Oh,  you!"  said  the  girl.  "I  knew  about  it  all  along!" 
she  added. 

"Oh,  me!"  replied  Jameson.     "I  knew  all  along  you  did!" 

"Well,  then,  get  up  and  hustle." 

"What  am  I  doing  now?  Do  you  mean  it's  time  for 
another  washout  at  the  bar?" 

"No,  I  don't.  That  sort  of  thing  isn't  so  very  necessary, 
I  don't  believe.  Nor  so  very  nice,  either.  Do  you  see  that 
girl  over  in  that  far-away  corner?" 

"I  do." 

"Not  very  pretty,  eh?" 

"Not  very." 

"A  good  deal  of  a  dowdy,  besides?" 

"I  should  say  so." 

"Well,  you've  got  me  on  the  string  all  right,  so  go  over 
and  dance  with  her.  She's  got  a  kind  of  a  pull,  too — at 
least  her  father  has." 

"Dance?"  objected  Jameson.  "You  know  what  my  danc 
ing  is.  Besides,  I  want  to  stay  where  I  am." 

"Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  sit  here  much  longer?  Go; 
you'll  find  the  poor  thing  glad  enough  to  take  the  will  for  the 
deed.  If  her  father  and  my  uncle  agree — " 

,"Well,  you  know  best,"  said  Jameson,  rising  dejectedly, 
"if  I  could  have  another  waltz  with  you,  afterward — " 

"Not  on  your  life,"  said  Margaret  emphatically.  "As  I 
told  you  before,  I  came  here  to  dance" 


274   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"Good-by,  then." 

"Good-by." 

"Till  we  meet  again." 

"That  will  never  be.  By  to-morrow  my  name  might  be 
Kate  or  Sally  or  Dorothy  Jane,  for  all  you'll  be  able  to  re 
member." 

"It  will  be  Margaret,  just  the  same." 

"Well,  don't  forget  that  'Ryan'  follows  it— and  that  'Miss' 
comes  before." 

"I  hope  I  know  how  to  address  a — a  letter  to  a  lady," 
said  Jameson  solemnly.  "What  is  the  rest  of  the  super 
scription?" 

"I'm  in  the  directory,  like  all  the  public  employees.  But 
you  needn't  look  there." 

"I  shall,  though." 

"I  forbid  you." 

"Then  what  street-car  line  do  I  take?" 

"Well,  for  cold  cheek—!" 

"So  you  won't  see  me  again? — not  even  for  a  quadrille?" 
asked  Jameson,  lingering. 

"Well,  I  might  consider  that"  returned  the  girl  guardedly. 

II 

"He'll  do,"  said  Brannigan.  "And  he's  the  only  one  who 
can  pull  the  old  Third  over  on  the  right  side  of  the  line." 

"That's  what  we  need,"  observed  His  Honor  sententiously. 

"But  how  about  Callahan?"  asked  the  city  clerk.  Calla- 
kan  was  the  stout  young  man  with  the  scalloped  hair.  He 
was  secretary  of  the  Steamfitters'  Union  and  had  a  fol 
lowing  of  his  own.  His  following,  as  it  immediately  devel 
oped,  included  the  thirty-seven  precinct  captains  of  the 
ward,  and  they  had  united  in  indorsing  him  for  alderman. 

Brannigan  swore  loudly  on  hearing  of  this  unauthorized 
action,  and  scattered  a  long  train  of  minor  oaths  through 
the  dim  and  dirty  corridors  of  the  municipal  edifice  as  he 
ploughed  his  way  out  toward  his  own  bailiwick.  He  had  the 
thirty-seven  hailed  before  him,  and  asked  them  who  was  run- 
ming  this  campaign,  anyway? 


STRIKING  AN  AVERAGE  275 

"Bates  is  the  man,"  he  emitted  amongst  various  sulphur 
ous  breathings,  "and  I'm  going  to  have  him  nominated." 

The  thirty-seven  acquiesced.  They  attended  the  ward 
convention  in  force  and  applauded  their  leader  all  through 
his  nominating  address,  as  he  spread  out  his  big,  fat  hands 
to  show  how  clean  they  were,  and  rolled  up  his  eyes  to  the 
ceiling  to  evidence  the  purity  of  his  aims,  his  motives,  his 
ambitions.  They  applauded  Jameson  Bates,  too,  whose 
speech  of  acceptance  was  stuffed  with  reckless  promises  for 
the  general  good  (each  of  which  he  kept,  or  tried  to),  but 
whose  every  word  and  gesture  bore  an  ironical  implication 
that  he  saw  through  them  and  they  through  him,  and  that 
they  were  all  a  pack  of  humbugging  rascals  together.  Yes, 
Jameson  quite  carried  them  away;  clearly  he  was  not  half  so 
good  as  they  had  feared. 

Jameson  dined  at  a  flashy  restaurant  of  doubtful  repute, 
along  with  six  or  eight  of  the  precinct  captains.  As  he  was 
lying  at  the  end  of  the  showcase,  near  the  droplight.  Al 
most  instinctively  his  hand  sought  the  volume  and  began 
frilling  over  its  leaves  in  search  of  the  final  pages  of  the  R's. 
"I'm  half  way  there,"  he  thought;  "so  why  shouldn't  I  do 
the  decent  thing  and  go  and  thank  her?"  He  pressed  another 
handful  of  cigars  upon  his  followers  and  swung  aboard  a 
passing  car. 

Poplar  Avenue  turned  out  to  be  a  ramshackle  street  set 
higgledy-piggledy  with  various  ugly  little  edifices,  brick  and 
frame.  The  sidewalks  were  full  of  sudden  rises,  falls  and 
dislocations,  and  far  below,  in  the  midst  of  the  mud,  were 
certain  indications  that  pointed  to  the  possibility  of  a  rotting 
wooden  pavement.  No.  783  rose  high  above  its  humbler 
neighbors  with  a  certain  pert  tinnishness  of  cornice  and  bay- 
window  about  its  front  of  red  brick  and  white  limestone,  but 
Jameson  soon  saw  that  each  of  its  four  floors  was  a  separate 
flat.  "H'm,"  he  said,  considering  the  whole  bare,  ugly  pros 
pect,  "after  this  I  shall  never  take  elms  and  asphalt  for 
granted." 

The  door  of  the  third  flat  was  opened  by  a  plain,  substan 
tial  woman  who  wore  a  serviceable  black  dress  and  who  had 
her  hair  drawn  smoothly  across  her  temples.  "Mother,  sure 


276    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

enough,"  said  Jameson.  "She's  all  right."  Mother  an 
nounced  that  "Maggie"  would  be  in  "right  away."  She  put 
Jameson  on  a  sofa  upholstered  in  a  kind  of  pink  and  silver 
brocade  and  adorned  with  certain  superfluous  hangings, 
danglings  and  festoonings.  Then,  with  the  delicacy  of  her 
class,  she  retired  and  was  seen  no  more. 

Jameson  poked  at  the  sofa  with  an  incredulous  finger. 

"Well,  I've  seen  them  often  enough  in  the  windows  of  the 
instalment  stores,  and  now  I'm  actually  sitting  on  one! 
Fancy!"  Sheraton  and  Chippendale  seemed  a  long  way  off. 
"Never  mind  that,  though,"  he  added. 

After  some  little  time — by  no  means  "right  away" — 
Margaret  came  in.  She  wore  a  dress  of  electric  blue,  made 
with  a  variety  of  liberal  revers,  wings,  flounces  and  the  like, 
and  trimmed  with  an  abundance  of  wide  braid.  She  seemed 
to  feel  that  the  effect  of  her  costume  was  very  quiet,  refined, 
ladylike.  She  herself,  however,  was  just  a  bit  flushed  and 
breathless.  Such  a  call  was  an  event.  So  was  such  a  dress. 

"Well,  here  I  am,"  said  Jameson,  rising  with  cordial 
abruptness.  "You  can't  keep  me  down,  you  see." 

"Who  wants  to  keep  a  good  man  down,  I  should  like  to 
know?" 

"I'm  glad  you  think  I'm  good." 

"I  never  had  any  doubts  about  it.  I  felt  it  the  first  time 
I  saw  you." 

"Oh,  come,"  protested  Jameson.     "Not  too  good?" 

"No  better  than  you  ought  to  be.  Just  good  enough.  Sit 
down  again." 

She  set  him  an  example  by  sinking  into  a  big,  pudgy  easy- 
chair.  She  carefully  deployed  her  slim,  well-kept  fingers 
over  one  arm  of  it. 

"Well,  didn't  I  guess  right  about  you?"  he  asked,  eyeing 
the  fingers. 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"About  the  office.  Of  course  I  knew  you  never  weighed 
out  nails." 

"I  should  say  not.    Well,  you  got  through  all  right?" 

"Slick  as  a  whistle.  Poor  Callahan,  though — cut  out 
again." 


STRIKING  AN  AVERAGE  277 

"Don't  mention  Callahan.    He  doesn't  interest  me." 

"He  did— up  to  the  time  of  that  quadrille." 

"Well,  maybe;  but  that's  over.  I  knew  it  was  a  go  for 
you,"  she  added. 

"You  did?    How  soon?" 

"As  soon  as  you  came  over  and  asked  me  to  dance.  *A 
man  who  can  handle  things  like  that,'  thought  I — What 
made  you  ask  me  first,  anyway?" 

"Because  you're  so  dark,  I  expect.  I'm  so  light  myself, 
you  see.  I  made  one  mistake,  though." 

"What  was  that?  Thinking  you  could  waltz  by  inspira 
tion?" 

"No.  I  thought  at  first  your  eyes  were  black.  They're 
blue." 

"Of  course  they  are.    Did  you  want  them  black?" 

"Not  on  your  life!  What! — when  the  pupils  are  a  blue 
that  almost  is  black,  and  big  enough  to  crowd  the  iris  almost 
out  of  sight?  And  when  your  eyebrows  are  black,  and  your 
eyelashes,  too,  and  your — I  don't  know  what  to  call  them, 
but  I  mean  that  little  fringe  on  the  under  edge  of — " 

"Dear  me,  you'll  know  my  eyes  next  time  you  see  them!" 

"Certain  sure.    Tell  me  truly,  are  you  Irish?" 

"Of  course  I  am.  Not  red  Irish,  though;  black.  I  got 
my  eyes  and  my  hair  from  Spain." 

"I  know;  the  Dons  of  the  Armada.  Tell  me:  were  your 
forefathers  kings?" 

"My  great-great-great — " 

"Keep  it  up,"  said  Jameson. 

" — great-grandfather  was  king  of — oh,  laugh,  if  you 
want  to!" 

"I  don't.    Go  ahead." 

"And  my  mother  is  a  lady — even  if  we  do  live  on  the 
wrong  side  of  the  tracks." 

"So  is  mine.  Don't  you  suppose  I  know  a  lady  when  I 
see  one?" 

"And  my  father  is  an  honest  man — even  if  he  does  work 
in  the  Special  Assessment  department.  It's  his  principle 
that's  kept  him  back." 

"And  is  my  father  a  scamp  ?    Not  much !    What  if  he  has 


278    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

got  five  millions? — he  made  every  dollar  of  them  honestly. 
He  may  not  be  one  of  your  hidalgos,  but  he  is  one  of  Nature's 
noblemen,  all  the  same.  Say,  are  those  five  millions  going 
to  hurt  my  prospects?" 

"Not  if  you  show  yourself  to  the  voters." 

"I'm  going  to  begin  to-morrow.  Glad  hand  all  around, 
and  three  or  four  speeches  every  day  for  the  next  month. 
Don't  you  think  I  can  do  the  heart-to-heart  act?" 

"I  should  say  yes.    You  can  jolly  to  beat  the  band." 

"Come  and  hear  me." 

"I'm  going  to.    Who  is  it  you  get  it  from?    Your  father?" 

"No.  Just  a  gift  from  Heaven,  I  guess.  Father  doesn't 
talk  much.  He  acts." 

"How  did  he  begin?" 

"He  was  a  machinist.  And  my  grandfather,  my  mother's 
father,  was  a  carpenter.  My  mother  herself — " 

"Yes,  do  tell  me  about  her." 

" — was  a  washerwoman." 

"Never  in  the  world!" 

"So  she  says.  And  I'll  bet  a  cent  that  if  she  had  a  little 
back  shed  with  a  bench  and  a  washtub  in  it — " 

"Look  here,"  cried  the  girl  with  a  face  expressive  of 
limitless  admiration  and  sympathy,  "I'm  just  beginning  to 
understand  you." 

"Poof!"  said  Jameson,  tossing  his  head  nonchalantly, 
"I  understood  you  from  the  word  go.  At  the  same  time,"  he 
went  on,  "she's  a  queen,  just  like  your  great-great-great — " 

"Oh,  stop,  do,"  cried  Margaret  in  distress. 

" — a  'society'  queen,  I  mean,  and  a  grand  old  girl  any 
way  you  put  it." 

"I'm  sure  she  is.    I'd  give  anything  to  know  her." 

"Easy  thing,  that.    She'll  call." 

"Would  she?" 

"Sure.  I'm  her  favorite  son.  My  elder  brother,  Billy — 
Will-yum,  I  mean — has  turned  out  something  of  a  prig." 

"Would  she,  truly?  But  not — not — not  because  it's 
politics?" 

"Oh,  cut  politics.  You're  worth  something  in  yourself, 
ain't  you?" 


STRIKING  AN  AVERAGE  279 

"I've  always  hoped  so." 

"Well,  don't  call  it  a  hope.  Call  it  a  certainty.  That 
would  be  nearer  right." 

The  girl  smiled  modestly,  deprecatingly,  almost  appeal- 
ingly.  The  amazon  of  Harmony  Hall,  no  longer  under  the 
necessity  of  enforcing  respect  in  a  rough  public  gathering, 
was  now  completely  obscured;  even  the  character  of  a  mid 
dle-class  maiden  earnestly  parrying  the  advances  of  a  half- 
known  young  millionaire  was  finally  as  good  as  laid  aside. 
"She's  a  lady,  after  all — that's  what  she  is,"  murmured 
Jameson  with  conviction;  "and  I've  been  about  ten  times 
too  gay." 

Margaret  fingered  the  deplorable  trappings  of  her  chair 
with  a  fine  effect  of  conscious  pensiveness.  Jameson  studied 
a  crayon  portrait  overhead,  a  mild,  middle-aged  face  with 
a  goat's  beard — doubtless  the  just  man  in  the  Special  Assess 
ment  department. 

"People  might  think  our  talk  rather  personal,"  she  pres 
ently  observed. 

"Or  that  we  had  about  talked  ourselves  out,"  he  rejoined, 
coming  back  from  the  brief  silence. 

"Have  we?" 

"Not  a  bit;  we've  hardly  begun  yet.  Well,  why  shouldn't 
we  be  personal  ?  Why  shouldn't  we  talk  about  what  interests 
us?  I'm  sure  you  interest  me.  And  I  thought  I  was  in 
teresting  you.  If  I'm  not — "  He  made  a  pretense  of 
search  for  his  hat. 

"Don't  ask  me  where  it  is,"  she  said.  "Do  you  know," 
she  resumed  presently,  "that  I  copied  one  of  your  deeds  day 
before  yesterday? — one  you  signed  yourself  as  somebody's 
attorney." 

"Oh,  that  quit-claim?" 

"Volume  6937,  page  231.  Document  number  one  million 
eight  hundred  and  thirty-six  thousand  nine  hun — " 

"You  must  have  taken  your  own  time  with  it.  I've  been 
sending  to  the  Recorder's  for  the  original  for  the  past  week." 

"I  did.  You  filled  out  the  body  yourself,  too,  didn't  you? 
You  write  a  very  good  hand  for  a  lawyer." 

"Call  me  that,  if  you  like." 


280    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"Till  I  can  call  you  alderman." 

"You  have  a  very  good  hand  yourself,"  ventured  Jameson. 
"Now,  as  a  fact,  I  am  an  expert  palm — " 

"You  sha'n't  read  mine!"  she  retorted,  drawing  her  hand 
back.  "I  don't  encourage  any  such — " 

"You're  quite  right,"  he  replied  gravely.  "I  beg  your 
pardon." 

"Society!"  she  commented  witheringly. 

"Well,  does  that  hurt?" 

"Talk  as  you  did  at  first.  Oh,  well,  take  it,  if  you  want 
to." 

"I  don't  need  to.  I  think  I  know  about  what's  likely  to 
happen  to  you." 

"Tell  me." 

"Not  yet." 

"Too  dreadful?" 

"That  will  be  for  you  to  say." 

"My  future  rests  with  myself,  then?" 

"That's  pretty  close  to  it — " 

There  was  a  clumsy  scuffling  along  the  corridor.  "Where's 
Mag?"  asked  a  sharp  little  voice. 

"'Mag'!     There!     what  did  I  tell  you — Margaret?" 

"I  won't  allow  you  to — " 

The  cause  of  the  disturbance  appeared  between  the  stuffy 
portieres — a  boy  of  ten,  all  legs,  awkwardness,  curiosity  and 
freckles. 

"Go  away,  Jimmy,"  said  his  sister. 

"Come  in,  Jimmy,"  said  his  sister's  caller. 

Jimmy  came  in  and  looked  at  Jameson  and  grinned. 
Jameson  gave  him  a  dazzling  smile  and  tousled  his  red  hair. 
"Me  own  name,  exactly,"  he  said,  and  Jimmy  grinned  all  the 
wider.  Peter  Callahan  had  once  tried  to  tousle  Jimmy's 
hair  and  had  had  his  shins  kicked  for  his  pains.  No, 
Peter  could  never  be  a  successful  candidate;  he  seemed 
doomed  to  defeat  all  around. 

Jimmy  went  out  as  soon  as  Jameson  left.  The  light  was 
fled,  the  savor  departed.  He  cast  a  careless  glance  at  sister 
Margaret,  now  in  reverie  on  the  sofa,  and  shuffled  back 
down  the  corridor. 


STRIKING  AN  AVERAGE  281 

Margaret  continued  to  dream.  They  all  began  by  tousling 
Jimmy's  head.  Could  this  last  tousler  be  a  serious  one? 
And  what  might  be  expected  to  follow?  Jimmy,  always 
quick  to  detect  a  fraud,  was  thoroughly  satisfied  and  con 
vinced.  Heigh-ho!  One  thing  was  clear,  however:  she 
should  have  her  fill  of  oratory  during  the  coming  fortnight. 

Ill 

"It's  the  easiest  proposition  going,"  Jameson  explained 
to  his  mother,  as  he  deftly  struck  the  tip  off  his  egg.  "Nine- 
tenths  of  it  is  in  temperament,  and  the  other  tenth  is  in 
conforming — or  in  seeming  to  conform — to  the  general 
average  of  thought  and  manners.  In  other  words,  be  a  man 
first  and  a  gentleman  afterward.  And  a  jollier  always." 

"But  our  standard  of "  his  mother  began. 

"Democracy  has  no  use  for  a  standard.  The  'standard* 
is  replaced  by  the  'average.'  " 

His  mother  looked  doubtfully  at  his  red  eyes  and  listened 
with  solicitude  to  his  raucous  tones. 

"I  see  what  you  are  thinking  of,  ma.  But  I'm  not  a 
drinker,  as  you  very  well  know;  while  as  for  this  talking 
the  plaster  off  of  ceilings,  it  will  be  over  in  a  week  more." 

"But  these  awful  creatures  that  keep  coming  to  the  house. 
Do  you  really  have  to  'jolly'  them,  as  you  call  it?" 

"Oh,  there  are  plenty  that  are  worse.  Yes,  I  do.  And 
it's  a  lucky  thing  that  I  can.  And  it's  a  still  luckier  thing 
that  I  can  do  it  with  sincerity — they're  mighty  quick  to 
catch  the  false  tone.  Why,  mother,  we  were  pretty  plain 
folks  ourselves,  once." 

"Yes,  I  know  we  were.  We  can  be  yet,  should  occasion  re 
quire.  And  do  you  have  to  drink  with  them  all  day  long?" 

"I'm  not  so  sure  on  that  point.  But  there  was  no  time 
for  a  preliminary  study  of  the  situation,  so  I  fell  in  with 
existing  arrangements." 

"And  that  explains,  too,  your  Mr.   Branni — Branni — " 

"Brannigan?    Yes." 

"If  you  had  only  begun  by  having  a  petition  circulated 
among  our  friends  and  neighbors — " 


282    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"Oh,  come,  mother,  how  is  it  when  you  go  to  the  theatre? 
You  don't  scramble  in  any  old  way;  you  go  in  past  the 
regular  doorkeeper." 

"Is  that  man  the  regular  doorkeeper?  Who  made  him 
such,  I  should  like  to  know?  What  business  has  he  to 
stand  there?" 

"Can't  say.  But  there  he  is,  and  it's  simpler  to  recognize 
the  fact.  Filson,  give  us  another  round  of  the  toast.  I 
get  your  vote,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  man  respectfully.  "You  get  every 
vote  in  the  house.  You'd  get  fifty,  sir,  instead  of  five,  if  we 
had  them." 

Susan  Bates  stirred  her  coffee  thoughtfully.  "And  there 
are  those  odious  pictures  in  the  papers.  For  years  they've 
been  calling  upon  our  young  men  of  wealth  and  position  to 
come  forward,  and  now  when  one  does  come — " 

"Mother,  dear,  you  wouldn't  have  them  ignore  me  alto 
gether?" 

"I  know.  But  those  squibs,  those  caricatures,  those  'pink 
tea'  cartoons — " 

"A  little  more  of  'pink  tea'  would  mean  a  good  deal  less 
of  'pink  eye'!" 

"And  those  insulting  interruptions  at  your  meetings;  those 
silly,  malapropos  questions  and  comments — " 

"Have  I  ever  failed  to  return  as  good  as  was  sent?  Or 
better?" 

"I  don't  think  I'm  overfastidious,  Jimmy,  but  that  last 
meeting  of  yours  seemed  to  me  to  be  very  cheap  and  nasty." 

"Dear  ma,  the  world  itself  is  rather  cheap  and  nasty. 
Haven't  you  found  that  out  yet?" 

"No,  my  boy;  and  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  say  that  you 
have." 

"I  don't  quite  mean  that,  of  course.  But  if  a  man's 
going  to  help  it  along  a  bit — " 

"That's  just  what  your  father  and  I  want  you  to  do." 

" — he  must  do  it,  sometimes,  in  its  own  cheap  way  and 
on  its  own  cheap  terms." 

His  mother  looked  at  him  soberly.  "If  you  get  in,  I  shall 
want  you  to  become  yourself  again — right  away,  too." 


STRIKING  AN  AVERAGE  283 

"I  shall;  never  fear.  By  the  way,  if  you  want  to  do  a 
little — a  little  electioneering  for  me — " 

"Well?"  For  a  surprising  self-consciousness  had  sud 
denly  developed  in  his  tone  and  air. 

"I'm  not  in  yet,  you  know,  and  every  little  helps.  If  you 
feel  inclined,  you  might  make  a  bit  of  a  call  on  some  'con- 
stits'  of  mine  over  beyond  the  tracks.  They  have  'influence,' 
and—" 

"H'm,"  said  his  mother. 

"I  really  wish  you  would,"  said  her  son. 

"I  hadn't  quite  expected—" 

"It's  all  right,  mother.  Should  I  ask  it  of  you  if  I  had 
the  slightest  doubt  about  the  propriety  of  it?  They're  ladies, 
both  of  them." 

"Very  well,  if  you  wish,"  she  said,  much  in  the  dark. 

"I  wuddent  go  in  no  car-r'age,  nayther,"  he  counseled. 
"I'd  hoof  it — or  ilse  take  the  sthrate  car.  And  make  it  some 
Saturday  afternoon,  if  you  can." 

"Why,  Jameson  Bates  I"  exclaimed  the  good  woman. 
"Still,  if  it's  politics—" 

Jameson  flushed.  "Pure  politics,"  he  said.  Then:  "Fil- 
son,  if  Katie  has  got  that  slippery  elm  boiled  down,  you  may 
bring  me  the  bottle  and  I'll  put  it  in  my  pocket  now." 

Mrs.  Bates  made  her  trip  to  the  other  side  of  the  ward 
the  next  Saturday  afternoon,  and  found  both  the  Ryan 
ladies  at  home. 

"But  where  were  the  'poplars'?"  she  asked  Jameson. 

"Where  was  the  'avenue'?"  he  returned.  Then  he  said 
he  hoped  she  had  made  a  good  impression.  "For  the  hus 
band  and  father  is  a  big  power  in  the  ward,"  he  declared. 

"Was  that  his  picture  over  the  sofa?"  asked  his  mother, 
plainly  skeptical  as  to  Ryan's  "power." 

"Well,  what  did  you  think  of  his  wife?" 

Susan  Bates  had  come  to  immediate  terms  with  Cornelia 
Ryan.  She  had  found  her  a  woman  of  tact,  good  feeling  and 
sensibility — regardless  of  her  being  on  the  wrong  side  of 
the  tracks.  "She  is  not  only  one  of  your  'constits,'  but  a  very 
deroted  one,  I  should  judge." 

"Oh,  yes,"  returned  Jameson  easily.     On  two  or  three 


284    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

subsequent  calls  he  had  coaxed  Cornelia  Ryan  from  her  re 
tirement  and  had  frankly  given  her  a  taste  of  his  quality. 
"The  girl  is  rather  a  bright  one,  too,"  he  added  carelessly. 

"Is  she?"  said  her  mother.  "I  found  her  a  little  prim  and 
sedate — formal,  as  well,  I  might  say." 

"Heavens  1"  thought  Jameson.  "Has  Margaret  been  try 
ing  to  be- 'genteel' 1" 

"Still,  she  seemed  to  be  intelligent  enough — at  least  she 
was  pretty  familiar  with  some  of  your  speeches." 

"Yes,"  said  Jameson  with  the  vastest  indifference;  "I've 
noticed  her  in  the  audience  once  or  twice.  Queer  taste  of 
hers — politics.  Take  her  all  'round,  she's  the  most  singular 
girl  I  know;  as  different  from — " 

"Jameson  Bates,  why  did  you  have  me  go  there?  Tell  me 
the  truth!" 

"You'll  know  pretty  soon.  Hark!  there's  another  voter 
at  the  'phone.  I  can't  keep  him  waiting."  And  Jameson 
hurried  away. 

IV 

A  week  later,  whiskey  and  slippery  elm  were  alike  of  the 
past,  and  Edgar  Jameson  Bates  was  an  alderman-elect. 
"My  boy,  you've  turned  the  trick,"  said  Michael  Aloysius 
Brannigan,  in  a  state  of  extreme  elation. 

On  the  Monday  evening  following  Jameson  took  his  seat 
along  with  the  other  new  members  of  the  Council  and  par 
ticipated  in  his  first  session.  Every  desk  in  the  wide  semi 
circle  was  banked  with  flowers;  wives,  mothers,  sweethearts, 
in  early  spring  finery,  shared  the  desks  and  helped  crowd 
the  aisles.  It  was  the  first  Council  with  a  fair  majority  of 
honest  men  that  the  town  had  known  in  twenty  years.  If 
the  golden  age  had  returned,' why  not  welcome  it  with  floral 
offering  and  festive  apparel? 

Susan  Bates  shared  her  son's  desk  and  passed  the  floral 
"tributes"  in  review. 

"Whose  is  that?"  she  asked,  motioning  toward  a  green 
harp  compact  of  smilax  and  marguerites  that  towered  just  be 
hind  her. 


STRIKING  AN  AVERAGE  285 

"That's  for  Gilroy,  of  the  Seventh." 

"Whom  is  that  for?" — pointing  to  a  six-foot  warrior 
done,  tomahawk  and  all,  in  red  carnations. 

"That's  from  Casey's  'Indians,'  in  the  Twenty-eighth." 

She  came  back  to  her  son's  own  desk.  "Who  sent  you  this 
horseshoe  in  calla  lilies?" 

"The  Lincoln  Republicans  of  my  own  ward.  Their  votes 
helped  to  put  me  here.  How's  that  for  an  indorsement  of 
your  reviled  son?" 

"And  this? — this?"  pursued  his  mother. 

"H'm,"  said  Jameson.  "This"  was  a  sort  of  twofold  ar 
rangement  in  white  carnations,  crossed  by  a  diagonal  line  of 
purple  immortelles — the  whole  suggestive  of  an  open  book, 
with  a  pen  laid  upon  it.  It  seemed  to  refer  at  once  to  his 
own  legal  studies  and  to  the  activities  of  some  fair  copyist. 

His  mother  caught  at  the  card.  "Miss  Margaret  Ryan," 
she  read.  "Your  Miss  Ryan?" 

"My  Miss  Ryan,"  he  replied,  as  the  mayor,  rising  from  his 
empowered  desk,  let  fall  his  gavel  and  opened  the  pro 
ceedings. 

Susan  Bates  followed  the  course  of  business  to  the  best 
of  her  ability  as  it  went  along  under  the  stir  and  stimulus  of 
novel  conditions.  She  gave  her  closest  heed  to  the  halting 
manoeuvres  of  new  members  and  to  the  zigzag  rhetoric  of  old 
ones.  She  studied  intently  the  language  and  physiognomy  of 
each  speaker  as  he  arose  from  out  the  floral  jungle.  "Such 
foreheads!  Such  grammar  1"  she  said  to  her  son  in  a  ter 
rified  whisper. 

"Pooh,  mother  I"  he  rejoined;  "this  is  the  best  Council 
in  years." 

"A — ah!"  she  sighed  with  a  world  of  meaning,  and  re 
turned  to  the  study  of  Margaret  Ryan's  tribute. 

Jameson  kept  his  ears  open  for  the  roll-calls  that  followed 
one  another  with  striking  frequency,  and  his  eyes  open  for 
the  giver  of  the  floral  book.  When  his  mother  looked  down, 
he  looked  up.  When  she  looked  to  the  right  he  took  occasion 
to  glance  off  toward  the  left.  Presently  he  discovered  the 
object  of  his  search  hidden  behind  a  miniature  arch  of 
triumph  three  desks  away.  Susan  was  thoughtfully  studying 


286    THE  GREAT  MODERN.  AMERICAN  STORIES 

the  open  book;  Margaret,  with  a  face  full  of  strained  in 
tensity,  was  studying  Susan;  and  Jameson,  partly  sheltered 
by  his  calla  lilies,  studied  Margaret.  Presently  he  moved 
out  from  his  shelter  and  caught  her  eye  and  smiled  and 
drew  down  one  corner  of  his  mouth — "All's  well,"  it  said. 
The  girl's  strained  look  broke  into  a  smile  of  response;  then 
she  flushed  and  her  eyes  dropped,  and  she  retired  again 
behind  her  arch  of  triumph.  Susan  pondered  over  the  book, 
and  the  appalling  syntax  of  Alderman  Ziegler  flowed  along 
unheeded. 

As  the  session  broke  up  Jameson  signaled  to  the  girl  to 
meet  him  and  his  mother  at  the  exit.  Margaret  timed  herself 
accordingly,  and  joined  them,  along  with  her  cousin,  a  well- 
to-do  plumber,  who  at  once  showed  himself — on  this  public 
ground,  at  least —  as  a  man  and  a  brother.  Jameson  looked 
anxiously  at  his  mother,  whom  on  many  an  occasion  he  had 
seen  terrifyingly  gracious,  as  he  said : 

"You  remember  Miss  Ryan,  ma  ?  It's  she  who  has  pulled 
me  through  the  campaign."  And  Susan  greeted  the  girl  with 
a  plain,  homely  good  will — the  best  way  and  the  only. 

"Let  me  thank  you  on  my  Jimmy's  account,"  she  said. 

"There!  *  Jimmy'!"  murmured  the  girl. 

"And  do  not  forget  to  return  my  call,"  Susan  Bates  added, 
as  she  moved  away  by  her  son's  side. 

Two  or  three  evenings  later  Jameson  was  again  in  Poplar 
Avenut,  sitting  on  the  florid  dumpy  sofa  and  reading  Mar 
garet  Ryan's  palm. 

"It's  all  as  plain  as  day,"  he  declared,  bending  over  her 
hand.  "You  are  about  to  resume  your  royal  state,  to  be  a 
society  queen — on  the  other  side  of  the  tracks.  Come,  make 
a  stagger  at  it.  Why,  you  can  do  it  without  turning  a  hair. 
Not  one  in  a  hundred  is  half  so  well  fitted  for  the  part — " 

"Your  mother?"  hesitated  the  girl. 

"Well,  what  of  her?     Isn't  she  your  sort?" 

"Yes;  but—" 

"And  you're  hers.  Never  fear  about  that.  Come,  let's 
pool  our  issues — we'll  make  a  pretty  even  thing  of  it.  You 
put  in  a  bookkeeper  and  a  plumber,  and  we  put  in  a  ma 
chinist  and  a  carpenter.  We  both  contribute  a  certain 


STRIKING  AN  AVERAGE  287 

amount  of  royalty  and  a  fair  degree  of  gentility.  Take  it 
all  around,  we  hit  off  the  same  average  and  stack  up  about 
the  same  size.  To  add  to  that,  we're  both  in  politics.  And 
we  ought  to  stay  in — together."  He  bent  over  her  hand 
again.  "You  have  helped  me  to  my  place,  and  now  you  are 
to  share  its  honors  and  responsibilities." 

"You  read  all  that  there?" 

"Yes,  and  a  good  deal  more." 

"How  long  will  it  take  you  to  read  the  rest?" 

"A  lifetime." 

"You  are  sure  she  likes  me?" 

"Society"  as  a  remote  abstraction  might  be  joked  at  lightly; 
but  to  live,  perhaps,  under  the  same  roof  with  it —  I 

"You  are  sure  you  like  me?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  guarantee  the  rest.  Come;  to  tell  the -truth,  I 
need  you  in  my  business.  You  pulled  me  through  that 
waltz;  you  pulled  me  through  the  campaign.  You  must  be 
consistent  now,  and  promise  to  pull  me  through  life." 

"Poor  boy!    I'm  sorry  for  you !    I  will.    I  do." 


EFFIE  WHITTLESY* 

BY  GEORGE  ADE 

MRS,  Wallace  assisted  her  husband  to  remove  his  over 
coat  and  put  her  warm  palms  against  his  red  and 
wind-beaten  cheeks. 

"I  have  good  news,"  said  she. 

"Another  bargain  sale?" 

"Pshaw,  no!  A  new  girl,  and  I  really  believe  she's  a 
jewel.  She  isn't  young  or  good-looking,  and  when  I  asked 
her  if  she  wanted  any  nights  off  she  said  she  wouldn't  go 
but  after  dark  for  anything  in  the  world.  What  do  you 
think  of  that?" 

"That's  too  good  to  be  true." 

"No,  it  isn't.  Wait  and  see  her.  She  came  here  from  the 
intelligence  office  about  two  o'clock  and  said  she  was  will 
ing  to  'lick  right  in.'  You  wouldn't  know  the  kitchen.  She 
has  it  as  clean  as  a  pin." 

"What  nationality?" 

"None — that  is,  she's  a  home  product.  She's  from  the 
country — and  green!  But  she's  a  good  soul,  I'm  sure.  As 
soon  as  I  looked  at  her,  I  just  felt  sure  that  we  could  trust 
her." 

"Well,  I  hope  so.  If  she  is  all  that  you  say,  why,  for 
goodness  sake  give  her  any  pay  she  wants — put  lace  cur 
tains  in  her  room  and  subscribe  for  all  the  story  papers  on 
the  market." 

"Bless  you,  I  don't  believe  she'd  read  them.  Every  time 
I've  looked  into  the  kitchen  she's  been  working  like  a  Trojan 
and  singing  'Beulah  Land.' ': 

"Oh,  she  sings,  does  she?  I  knew  there'd  be  some  draw 
back." 


*  By  permission  of  the  author. 


EFFIE  WHITTLESY  289 

"You  won't  mind  that.    We  can  keep  the  doors  closed." 

The  dinner-table  was  set  in  tempting  cleanliness.  Mrs. 
Wallace  surveyed  the  arrangement  of  glass  and  silver  and 
gave  a  nod  of  approval  and  relief.  Then  she  touched  the 
bell  and  in  a  moment  the  new  servant  entered. 

She  was  a  tall  woman  who  had  said  her  last  farewell  to 
girlhood. 

Then  a  very  strange  thing  happened. 

Mr.  Wallace  turned  to  look  at  the  new  girl  and  his  eyes 
enlarged.  He  gazed  at  her  as  if  fascinated  either  by  cap 
or  freckles.  An  expression  of  wonderment  came  to  his  face 
and  he  said,  "Well,  by  George!" 

The  girl  had  come  very  near  the  table  when  she  took  the 
first  overt  glance  at  him.  Why  did  the  tureen  sway  in  her 
hands?  She  smiled  in  a  frightened  way  and  hurriedly  set 
the  tureen  on  the  table. 

Mr.  Wallace  was  not  long  undecided,  but  during  that 
moment  of  hesitancy  the  panorama  of  his  life  was  rolled 
backward.  He  had  been  reared  in  the  democracy  of  a  small 
community,  and  the  democratic  spirit  came  uppermost. 

"This  isn't  Erne  Whittlesy?"  said  he. 

"For  the  land's  sake!"  she  exclaimed,  backing  away,  and 
this  was  a  virtual  confession. 

"You  don't  know  me." 

"Well,  if  it  ain't  Ed  Wallace!" 

Would  that  words  were  ample  to  tell  how  Mrs.  Wallace 
settled  back  in  her  chair  blinking  first  at  her  husband  and 
then  at  the  new  girl,  vainly  trying  to  understand  what  it 
meant. 

She  saw  Mr.  Wallace  reach  awkwardly  across  the  table  and 
shake  hands  with  the  new  girl  and  then  she  found  voice  to 
gasp,  "Of  all  things!" 

Mr.  Wallace  was  confused  and  without  a  policy.  He  was 
wavering  between  his  formal  duty  as  an  employer  and  his 
natural  regard  for  an  old  friend.  Anyway,  it  occurred  to  him 
that  an  explanation  would  be  timely. 

"This  is  Erne  Whittlesy  from  Brainerd,"  said  he.  "I  used 
to  go  to  school  with  her.  She's  been  at  our  house  often.  I 


290    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

haven't  seen  her  for — I  didn't  know  you  were  in  Chicago," 
turning  to  Effie. 

"Well,  Ed  Wallace,  you  could  knock  me  down  with  a 
feather,"  said  Effie,  who  still  stood  in  a  flustered  attitude  a 
few  paces  back  from  the  table.  "I  had  no  more  idee  when 
I  heard  the  name  Wallace  that  it'd  be  you,  though  knowing 
of  course,  you  was  up  here.  Wallace  is  such  a  common  name 
I  never  give  it  a  second  thought.  But  the  minute  I  seen  you — 
law!  I  knew  who  it  was,  well  enough." 

"I  thought  you  were  still  at  Brainerd,"  said  Mr.  Wallace, 
after  a  pause. 

"I  left  there  a  year  ago  November,  and  come  to  visit 
Mort's  people.  I  s'pose  you  know  that  Mort  has  a  position 
with  the  street-car  company.  He's  doin'  so  well.  I  didn't 
want  to  be  no  burden  on  him,  so  I  started  out  on  my  own 
hook,  seem*  that  there  was  no  use  of  goin'  back  to  Brainerd 
to  slave  for  two  dollars  a  week.  I  had  a  good  place  with 
Mr.  Sanders,  the  railroad  man  on  the  north  side,  but  I  left 
becuz  they  wanted  me  to  serve  liquor.  I'd  about  as  soon 
handle  a  toad  as  a  bottle  of  beer.  Liquor  was  the  ruination 
of  Jesse.  He's  gone  to  the  dogs — been  off  with  a  circus  some- 
wheres  for  two  years." 

"The  family's  all  broken  up,  eh!"  asked  Mr.  Wallace. 

"Gone  to  the  four  winds  since  mother  died.  Of  course 
you  know  that  Lora  married  Huntford  Thomas  and  is  livin* 
on  the  old  Murphy  place.  They're  doin'  about  as  well  as  you 
could  expect,  with  Huntford  as  lazy  as  he  is." 

"Yes?     That's  good,"  said  Mr.  Wallace. 

Was  this  an  old  settlers'  reunion  or  a  quiet  family  dinner? 
The  soup  had  been  waiting. 

Mrs.  Wallace  came  into  the  breach. 

"That  will  be  all  for  the  present,  Effie,"  said  she. 

Effie  gave  a  startled  "Oh!"  and  vanished  into  the  kitchen. 

"It  means,"  said  Mr.  Wallace,  "that  we  were  children  to 
gether,  made  mud  pies  in  the  same  puddle  and  sat  next  to 
each  other  in  the  old  school-house  at  Brainerd.  She  is  a 
Whittlesy.  Everybody  in  Brainerd  knew  the  Whittlesys. 
Large  family,  all  poor  as  church  mice,  but  sociable — and 
freckled.  Effie's  a  good  girl." 


EFFIE  WHITTLESY  291 

"Erne!     Effie!    And  she  called  you  Ed!" 

"My  dear,  there  are  no  misters  in  Brainerd.  Why  shouldn't 
she  call  me  Ed !  She  never  heard  me  called  anything  else." 

"She'll  have  to  call  you  something  else  here.  You  tell  her 
so." 

"Now,  don't  ask  me  to  put  on  any  airs  with  one  of  the 
Whittlesys,  because  they  know  me  from  away  back.  Erne  has 
seen  me  licked  at  school.  She  has  been  at  our  house,  almost 
like  one  of  the  family,  when  mother  was  sick  and  needed 
another  girl.  If  my  memory  serves  me  right,  I've  taken  her 
to  singing-school  and  exhibitions.  So  I'm  in  no  position  to 
lord  it  over,  and  I  wouldn't  do  it  any  way.  I'd  hate  to  have 
her  go  back  to  Brainerd  and  report  that  she  met  me  here  in 
Chicago  and  I  was  too  stuck  up  to  remember  old  times  and 
requested  her  to  address  me  as  'Mister  Wallace/  Now,  you 
never  lived  in  a  small  town." 

"No,  I  never  enjoyed  that  privilege,"  said  Mrs.  Wallace, 
dryly. 

"Well,  it  is  a  privilege  in  some  respects,  but  it  carries 
certain  penalties  with  it,  too.  It's  a  very  poor  schooling  for 
a  fellow  who  wants  to  be  a  snob." 

"I  would  call  it  snobbishness  to  correct  a  servant  who 
addresses  me  by  my  first  name.  'Ed'  indeed !  Why,  I  never 
dared  to  call  you  that." 

"No,  you  never  lived  in  Brainerd." 

"And  you  say  you  used  to  take  her  to  singing-school?" 

"Yes,  ma'am — twenty  years  ago,  in  Brainerd.  You're  not 
surprised,  are  you  ?  You  knew  when  you  married  me  that  I 
was  a  child  of  the  soil,  who  worked  his  way  through  col 
lege  and  came  to  the  city  in  a  suit  of  store  clothes.  I'll 
admit  that  my  past  does  not  exactly  qualify  me  for  the  Four 
Hundred,  but  it  will  be  great  if  I  ever  get  into  politics." 

"I  don't  object  to  your  having  a  past,  but  I  was  just  think 
ing  how  pleasant  it  will  be  when  we  give  a  dinner-party  to 
have  her  come  in  and  address  you  as  'Ed.'  " 

Mr.  Wallace  patted  the  table-cloth  cheerily  with  both 
hands  and  laughed. 

"I  really  don't  believe  you'd  care,"  said  Mrs.  Wallace. 

"Effie  isn't  going  to  demoralize  the  household,"  he  said, 


292    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

consolingly.    "Down  in  Brainerd  we  may  be  a  little  slack  on 
the  by-laws  of  etiquette,  but  we  can  learn  in  time." 

Mrs.  Wallace  touched  the  bell  and  Erne  returned. 

As  she  brought  in  the  second  course,  Mr.  Wallace  deliber 
ately  encouraged  her  by  an  amiable  smile,  and  she  asked, 
"Do  you  get  the  Brainerd  papers?" 

"Yes — every  week." 

"There's  been  a  good  deal  of  sickness  down  there  this 
winter.  Lora  wrote  to  me  that  your  uncle  Joe  had  been 
kind  o'  poorly." 

"I  think  he's  up  and  around  again." 

"That's  good." 

And  she  edged  back  to  the  kitchen. 

With  the  change  for  dessert  she  ventured  to  say:  "Mort 
was  wonderin'  about  you  the  other  day.  He  said  he  hadn't 
saw  you  for  a  long  time.  My!  You've  got  a  nice  house 
here." 

After  dinner  Mrs.  Wallace  published  her  edict.  Erne 
would  have  to  go.  Mr.  Wallace  positively  forbade  the 
"strong  talking-to"  which  his  wife  advocated.  He  said  it 
was  better  that  Efne  should  go,  but  she  must  be  sent  away 
gently  and  diplomatically. 

Erne  was  "doing  up"  the  dishes  when  Mr.  Wallace  lounged 
into  the  kitchen  and  began  a  roundabout  talk.  His  wife, 
seated  in  the  front  room,  heard  the  prolonged  murmur. 
Ed  and  Erne  were  going  over  the  familiy  histories  of 
Brainerd  and  recalling  incidents  that  may  have  related  to 
mud  pies  or  school  exhibitions. 

Mrs.  Wallace  had  been  a  Twombley,  of  Baltimore,  and  no 
Twombley,  with  relatives  in  Virginia,  could  humiliate  her 
self  into  rivalry  with  a  kitchen  girl,  or  dream  of  such  a 
thing,  so  why  should  Mrs.  Wallace  be  uneasy  and  con 
stantly  wonder  what  Ed  and  Erne  were  talking  about? 

Mrs.  Wallace  was  faint  from  loss  of  pride.  The  night 
before  they  had  dined  with  the  Gages.  Mr.  Wallace,  a 
picture  of  distinction  in  his  evening  clothes,  had  shown  him 
self  the  bright  light  of  the  seven  who  sat  at  the  table.  She 
had  been  proud  of  him.  Twenty-four  hours  later  a  servant 
emerges  from  the  kitchen  and  hails  him  as  "Ed" ! 


EFFIE  WHITTLESY  293 

The  low  talk  in  the  kitchen  continued.  Mrs.  Wallace 
had  a  feverish  longing  to  tiptoe  down  that  way  and  listen, 
or  else  go  into  the  kitchen,  sweepingly,  and  with  a  few 
succinct  commands,  set  Miss  Whittlesy  back  into  her  menial 
station.  But  she  knew  that  Mr.  Wallace  would  misinterpret 
any  such  move  and  probably  taunt  her  with  joking  references 
to  her  "jealousy,"  so  she  forbore. 

Mr.  Wallace,  with  an  unlighted  cigar  in  his  mouth  (Efne 
had  forbidden  him  to  smoke  in  the  kitchen),  leaned  in  the 
doorway  and  waited  to  give  the  conversation  a  turn. 

At  last  he  said:  "Efne,  why  don't  you  go  down  and  visit 
Lora  for  a  month  or  so?  She'd  be  glad  to  see  you." 

"I  know,  Ed,  but  I  ain't  a  Rockefeller  to  lay  off  work  a 
month  at  a  time  an'  go  around  visitin*  my  relations.  I'd  like 
to  well  enough — but — " 

"O  pshaw!  I  can  get  you  a  ticket  to  Brainerd  to-mor 
row  and  it  won't  cost  you  anything  down  there." 

"No,  it  ain't  Chicago,  that's  a  fact.  A  dollar  goes  a  good 
ways  down  there.  But  what'll  your  wife  do?  She  told  me 
to-day  she'd  had  an  awful  time  gettin'  any  help." 

"Well — to  tell  you  the  truth,  Efne,  you  see — you're  an  old 
friend  of  mine  and  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  your  being  here 
in  my  house  as  a — well,  as  a  hired  girl." 

"No,  I  guess  I'm  a  servant  now.  I  used  to  be  a  hired  girl 
when  I  worked  for  your  ma,  but  now  I'm  a  servant.  I  don't 
see  as  it  makes  any  difference  what  you  call  me,  as  long  as 
the  work's  the  same." 

"You  understand  what  I  mean,  don't  you?  Any  time  you 
come  here  to  my  house  I  want  you  to  come  as  an  old  acquaint 
ance — a  visitor,  not  a  servant." 

"Ed  Wallace,  don't  be  foolish.  I'd  as  soon  work  for  you  as 
any  one,  and  a  good  deal  sooner." 

"I  know,  but  I  wouldn't  like  to  see  my  wife  giving  orders 
to  an  old  friend,  as  you  are.  You  understand,  don't  you?" 

"I  don't  know.    I'll  quit  if  you  say  so." 

"Tut!  tut!  I'll  get  you  that  ticket  and  you  can  start  for 
Brainerd  to-morrow.  Promise  me,  now." 

"I'll  go,  and  tickled  enough,  if  that's  the  way  you  look  at 
it." 


294    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"And  if  you  come  back,  I  can  get  you  a  dozen  places  to 
work." 

Next  evening  Effie  departed  by  carriage,  although  pro 
testing  against  the  luxury. 

"Ed  Wallace,"  said  she,  pausing  in  the  hallway,  "they 
never  will  believe  me  when  I  tell  it  in  Brainerd." 

"Give  them  my  best  and  tell  them  I'm  about  the  same 
as  ever." 

"I'll  do  that.    Good-bye." 

"Good-bye." 

Mrs.  Wallace,  watching  from  the  window,  saw  Effie  dis 
appear  into  the  carriage. 

"Thank  goodness,"  said  she. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Wallace,  to  whom  the  whole  episode  had 
been  like  a  cheering  beverage,  "Fve  invited  her  to  call  when 
she  comes  back." 

"To  call— here?" 

"Most  assuredly.  I  told  her  you'd  be  delighted  to  see  her 
at  any  time." 

"The  idea !    Did  you  invite  her,  really  ?" 

"Of  course  I  did  1  And  I'm  reasonably  certain  that  she'll 
come." 

"What  shall  I  do?" 

"  I  think  you  can  manage  it,  even  if  you  never  did  live 
in  Brainerd." 

Then  the  revulsion  came  and  Mrs.  Wallace,  with  a  re 
turn  of  pride  in  her  husband,  said  she  would  try. 


THE  LOST  PHCEBE* 

BY  THEODORE  DREISER 

THEY  lived  together  in  a  part  of  the  country  which 
was  not  so  prosperous  as  it  had  once  been,  about  three 
miles  from  one  of  those  small  towns  that,  instead  of 
increasing  in  population,  is  steadily  decreasing.  The  terri 
tory  was  not  very  thickly  settled;  perhaps  a  house  every 
other  mile  or  so,  with  large  areas  of  corn-  and  wheat-land 
and  fallow  fields  that  at  odd  seasons  had  been  sown  to 
timothy  and  clover.  Their  particular  house  was  part  log  and 
part  frame,  the  log  portion  being  the  old  original  home  of 
Henry's  grandfather.  The  new  portion,  of  now  rain-beaten, 
time-worn  slabs,  through  which  the  wind  squeaked  in  the 
chinks  at  times,  and  which  several  overshadowing  elms  and  a 
butternut-tree  made  picturesque  and  reminiscently  pathetic, 
but  a  little  damp,  was  erected  by  Henry  when  he  was  twenty- 
one  and  just  married. 

That  was  forty-eight  years_before.  The  furniture  inside, 
like  the  house  outside,  was  old  and  mildewy  and  reminiscent 
of  an  earlier  day.  You  have  seen  the  what-not  of  cherry  wood, 
perhaps,  with  spiral  legs  and  fluted  top.  It  was  there.  The 
old-fashioned  four-poster  bed,  with  its  ball-like  protuber 
ances  and  deep  curving  incisions,  was  there  also,  a  sadly 
alienated  descendant  of  an  early  Jacobean  ancestor.  The 
bureau  of  cherry  was  also  high  and  wide  and  solidly  built, 
but  faded-looking,  and  with  a  musty  odor.  The  rag  carpet 
that  underlay  all  these  sturdy  examples  of  enduring  furni 
ture  was  a  weak,  faded,  lead-and-pink-colored  affair  woven 
by  Phcebe  Ann's  own  hands,  when  she  was  fifteen  years 
younger  than  she  was  when  she  died.  The  creaky  wooden 

*  From  "  Free  and  Other  Stories,"  copyright,  1919,  Boni  & 
Liveright.  Permission  of  the  author. 

295 


296    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

loom  on  which  it  had  been  done  now  stood  like  a  dusty, 
bony  skeleton,  along  with  a  broken  rocking-chair,  a  worm- 
eaten  clothes-press — Heaven  knows  how  old — a  lime-stained 
bench  that  had  once  been  used  to  keep  flowers  on  outside 
the  door,  and  other  decrepit  factors  of  household  utility, 
in  an  east  room  that  was  a  lean-to  against  this  so-called 
main  portion.  All  sorts  of  other  broken-down  furniture  were 
about  this  place;  an  antiquated  clothes-horse,  cracked  in  two 
of  its  ribs ;  a  broken  mirror  in  an  old  cherry  frame,  which  had 
fallen  from  a  nail  and  cracked  itself  three  days  before  their 
youngest  son,  Jerry,  died;  an  extension  hat-rack,  which  once 
had  had  porcelain  knobs  on  the  ends  of  its  pegs;  and  a  sew 
ing-machine,  long  since  outdone  in  its  clumsy  mechanism 
by  rivals  of  a  newer  generation. 

The  orchard  to  the  east  of  the  house  was  full  of  gnarled 
old  apple-trees,  worm-eaten  as  to  trunks  and  branches,  and 
fully  ornamented  with  green  and  white  lichens,  so  that  it 
had  a  sad,  greenish-white,  silvery  effect  in  moonlight.  The 
low  outhouses,  which  had  once  housed  chickens,  a  horse  or 
two,  a  cow,  and  several  pigs,  were  covered  with  patches  of 
moss  as  to  their  roof,  and  the  sides  had  been  free  of  paint  for 
so  long  that  they  were  blackish  gray  as  to  color,  and  a  little 
spongy.  The  picket-fence  in  front,  with  its  gate  squeaky 
and  askew,  and  the  side  fences  of  the  stake-and-rider  type 
were  in  an  equally  run-down  condition.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  they  had  aged  synchronously  with  the  persons  who 
lived  here,  old  Henry  Reifsneider  and  his  wife  Phcebe  Ann. 

They  had  lived  here,  these  two,  ever  since  their  marriage, 
forty-eight  years  before,  and  Henry  had  lived  here  before  that 
from  his  childhood  up.  His  father  and  mother,  well  along  in 
years  when  he  was  a  boy,  had  invited  him  to  bring  his  wife 
here  when  he  had  first  fallen  in  love  and  decided  to  marry; 
and  he  had  done  so.  His  father  and  mother  were  the  com 
panions  of  himself  and  his  wife  for  ten  years  after  they  were 
married,  when  both  died;  and  then  Henry  and  Phcebe  were 
left  with  their  five  children  growing  lustily  apace.  But  all 
sorts  of  things  had  happened  since  then.  Of  the  seven  chil 
dren,  all  told,  that  had  been  born  to  them,  three  had  died; 
one  girl  had  gone  to  Kansas ;  one  boy  had  gone  to  Sioux  Falls, 


THE  LOST  PHCEBE  297 

never  even  to  be  heard  of  after;  another  boy  had  gone  to 
Washington;  and  the  last  girl  lived  five  counties  away  in 
the  same  State,  but  was  so  burdened  with  cares  of  her  own 
that  she  rarely  gave  them  a  thought.  Time  and  a  common 
place  home  life  that  had  never  been  attractive  had  weaned 
them  thoroughly,  so  that,  wherever  they  were,  they  gave 
tittle  thought  as  to  how  it  might  be  with  their  father  and 
toother. 

Old  Henry  Reifsneider  and  his  wife  Phoebe  were  a  loving 
couple.  ^ou_perhaps.know  how  it  is  with  simple  natures  that 
fasten  themselves  like  lichens  on  the  stones  of  circumstance 
and  weather  their  days  to  a  crumbling  conclusion.  The  great 
world  sounds  widely,  but  it  has  no  call  for  them.  They  have 
no  soaring  intellect.  The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  corn 
field,  the  pig-pen,  and  the  chicken-lot  measure  the  range  of 
their  human  activities.  When  the  wheat  is  headed  it  is 
reaped  and  threshed ;  when  the  corn  is  browned  and  frosted 
it  is  cut  and  shocked;  when  the  timothy  is  in  full  head  it  is 
cut,  and  the  hay-cock  erected.  After  that  comes  winter,  with 
the  hauling  of  grain  to  market,  the  sawing  and  splitting  of 
wood,  the  simple  chores  of  fire-building,  meal-getting,  occa 
sional  repairing,  and  visiting.  Beyond  these  and  the 
changes  of  weather — the  snows,  the  rains,  and  the  fair  days — 
there  are  no  immediate,  significant  things.  All  the  rest  of  life  j 
is  a  far-off,  clamorous  phantasmagoria,  flickering  like  J 
Northern  lights  in  the  night,  and  sounding  as  faintly  as 
cow-bells  tinkling  in  the  distance. 

Old  Henry  and  his  wife  Phcebe  were  as  fond  of  each  other 
as  it  is  possible  for  two  old  people  to  be  who  have  nothing 
else  in  this  life  to  be  fond  of.  He  was  a  thin  old  man, 
seventy  when  she  died,  a  queer,  crotchety  person  with  coarse 
gray-black  hair  and  beard,  quite  straggly  and  unkempt.  He 
looked  at  you  out  of  dull,  fishy,  watery  eyes  that  had  deep- 
brown  crow's-feet  at  the  sides.  His  clothes,  like  the  clothes 
of  many  farmers,  were  aged  and  angular  and  baggy,  stand 
ing  out  at  the  pockets,  not  fitting  about  the  neck,  pro 
tuberant  and  worn  at  elbow  and  knee.  Phcebe  Ann  was  thin 
and  shapeless,  a  very  umbrella  of  a  woman,  clad  in  shabby 
black,  and  with  a  black  bonnet  for  her  best  wear.  As  time 


J 


298    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

had  passed,  and  they  had  only  themselves  to  look  after,  their 
movements  had  become  slower  and  slower,  their  activities 
fewer  and  fewer.  The  annual  keep  of  pigs  had  been  reduced 
from  five  to  one  grunting  porker,  and  the  single  horse  which 
Henry  now  retained  was  a  sleepy  animal,  n^  over-nourished 
and_jiot  very  clean.  The  chickens,  of  which  formerly  there 
"was~aTIarge  flock,  had  almost  disappeared,  owing  to  ferrets, 
foxes,  and  the  lack  of  proper  care,  which  produces  disease. 
The  former  healthy  garden  was  now  a  straggling  memory  of 
itself,  and  the  vines  and  flower-beds  that  formerly  orna 
mented  the  windows  and  dooryard  had  now  become  choking 
thickets.  A  will  had  been  made  which  divided  the  small 
tax-eaten  property  equally  among  the  remaining  four,  so 
that  it  was  really  of  no  interest  to  any  of  them.  Yet  these 
two  lived  together  in  peace  and  sympathy,  only  that  now  and 
then  old  Henry  would  become  unduly  cranky,  complaining  al 
most  invariably  that  something  had  been  neglected  or  mis 
laid  which  was  of  no  importance  at  all. 

"Phcebe,  where's  my  corn-knife?  You  ain't  never  minded 
to  let  my  things  alone  no  more." 

"Now  you  hush,  Henry,"  his  wife  would  caution  him  in 
a  cracked  arrd  squeaky  voice.  "If  you  don't,  I'll  leave  yuh. 
I'll  git  up  and  walk  out  of  here  some  day,  and  then  where 
would  y'  be?  Y'  ain't  got  anybody  but  me  to  look  after  yuh, 
so  yuh  just  behave  yourself.  Your  corn  knife's  on  the 
mantel  where  it's  allus  been  unless  you've  gone  an'  put  it 
summers  else." 

Old  Henry,  who  knew  his  wife  would  never  leave  him  under 
any  circumstances,  used  to  speculate  at  times  as  to  what 
he  would  do  if  she  were  to  die.  That  was  the  one  leaving 
that  he  really  feared.  As  he  climbed  on  the  chair  at  night  to 
wind  the  old,  long-pendulumed,  double-weighted  clock,  or 
went  finally  to  the  front  and  the  back  door  to  see  that  they 
were  safely  shut  in,  it  was  a  comfort  to  know  that  Phcebe 
was  there,  properly  esconced  on  her  side  of  the  bed,  and  that 
if  he  stirred  restlessly  in  the  night,  she  would  be  there  to  ask 
what  he  wanted. 

"Now,  Henry,  do  lie  still!  You're  as  restless  as  a 
chicken." 


THE  LOST  PHCEBE  299 

"Well,  I  can't  sleep,  Phoebe." 

"Well,  yuh  needn't  roll  so,  anyhow.    Yuh  kin  let  me  sleep." 

This  usually  reduced  him  to  a  state  of  somnolent  ease. 
If  she  wanted  a  pail  of  water,  it  was  a  grumbling  pleasure 
for  him  to  get  it;  and  if  she  did  rise  first  to  build  the  fires, 
he  saw  that  the  wood  was  cut  and  placed  within  easy  reach. 
They  divided  this  simple  world  nicely  between  them. 

As  the  years  had  gone  on,  however,  fewer  and  fewer  people 
had  called.  They  were  well-known  for  a  distance  of  as 
much  as  ten  square  miles  as  old  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Reifsneider, 
honest,  moderately  Christian,  but  too  old  to  be  really  in 
teresting  any  longer.  The  writing  of  letters  had  become  an 
almost  impossible  burden  too  difficult  to  continue  or  even 
negotiate  via  others,  although  an  occasional  letter  still  did 
arrive  from  the  daughter  in  Pemberton  County.  Now  and 
then  some  old  friend  stopped  with  a  pie  or  cake  or  a  roasted 
chicken  or  duck,  or  merely  to  see  that  they  were  well;  but 
even  these  kindly  minded  visits  were  no  longer  frequent. 

One  day  in  the  early  spring  of  her  sixty-fourth  year  Mrs. 
Reifsneider  took  sick,  and  from  a  low  fever  passed  into  some 
indefinable  ailment  which,  because  of  her  age,  was  no  longer 
curable.  Old  Henry  drove  to  Swinnerton,  the  neighboring 
town,  and  procured  a  doctor.  Some  friends  called,  and  the 
immediate  care  of  her  was  taken  off  his  hands.  Then  one 
chill  spring  night  she  died,  and  old  Henry,  in  a  fog  of  sorrow 
and  uncertainty,  followed  her  body  to  the  nearest  graveyard, 
an  unattractive  space  with  a  few  pines  growing  in  it.  Al 
though  he  might  have  gone  to  the  daughter  in  Pemberton 
or  sent  for  her,  it  was  really  too  much  trouble  and  he  was 
too  weary  and  fixed.  It  was  suggested  to  him  at  once  by 
one  friend  and  another  that  he  come  to  stay  with  them 
awhile,  but  he  did  not  see  fit.  He  was  so  old  and  so  fixed  in 
his  notions  and  so  accustomed  to  the  exact  surroundings 
he  had  known  all  his  days,  that  he  could  not  think  of  leav 
ing.  He  wanted  to  remain  near  where  they  had  put  his 
Phoebe;  and  the  fact  that  he  would  have  to  live  alone  did 
not  trouble  him  in  the  least.  The  living  children  were 
notified  and  the  care  of  him  offered  if  he  would  leave,  but 
he  would  not. 


300   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"I  kin  make  a  shift  for  myself,"  he  continually  announced 
to  old  Dr.  Morrow,  who  had  attended  his  wife  in  this  case. 
"I  kin  cook  a  little,  and,  besides,  it  don't  take  much  more'n 
coffee  an'  bread  in  the  mornin's  to  satisfy  me.  I'll  get  along 
now  well  enough.  Yuh  just  let  me  be."  And  after  many 
pleadings  and  proffers  of  advice,  with  supplies  of  coffee  and 
bacon  and  baked  bread  duly  offered  and  accepted,  he  was 
left  to  himself.  For  a  while  he  sat  idly  outside  his  door 
brooding  in  the  spring  sun.  He  tried  to  revive  his  interest 
in  farming,  and  to  keep  himself  busy  and  free  from  thought 
by  looking  after  the  fields,  which  of  late  had  been  much  ne 
glected.  It  was  a  gloomy  thing  to  come  in  of  an  evening, 
however,  or  in  the  afternoon,  and  find  no  shadow  of  Phoebe 
where  everything  suggested  her.  By  degrees  he  put  a  few 
of  her  things  away.  At  night  he  sat  beside  his  lamp  and 
read  in  the  papers  that  were  left  him  occasionally  or  in  a 
Bible  that  he  had  neglected  for  years,  but  he  could  get  little 
solace  from  these  things.  Mostly  he  held  his  hand  over  his 
mouth  and  looked  at  the  floor  as  he  sat  and  thought  of  what 
had  become  of  her,  and  how  soon  he  himself  would  die.  He 
made  a  great  business  of  making  his  coffee  in  the  morning  and 
frying  himself  a  little  bacon  at  night;  but  his  appetite  was 
gone.  The  shell  in  which  he  had  been  housed  so  long 
seemed  vacant,  and  its  shadows  were  suggestive  of  immed 
icable  griefs.  So  he  lived  quite  dolefully  for  five  long 
months,  and  then  a  change  began. 

It  was  one  night,  after  he  had  looked  after  the  front  and 
the  back  door,  wound  the  clock,  blown  out  the  light,  and  gone 
through  all  the  selfsame  motions  that  he  had  indulged  in  for 
years,  that  he  went  to  bed  not  so  much  to  sleep  as  to  think. 
It  was  a  moonlight  night.  The  green-lichen-covered  or 
chard  just  outside  and  to  be  seen  from  his  bed  where  he  now 
lay  was  a  silvery  affair,  sweetly  spectral.  The  moon  shone 
through  the  east  windows,  throwing  the  pattern  of  the  panes 
on  the  wooden  floor,  and  making  the  old  furniture,  to  which 
he  was  accustomed,  stand  out  dimly  in  the  room.  As  usual 
he  had  been  thinking  of  Phcebe  and  the  years  when  they  had 
been  young  together,  and  of  the  children  who  had  gone,  and 
the  poor  shift  he  was  making  of  his  present  days.  The 


THE  LOST  PHCEBE  301 

house  was  coming  to  be  in  a  very  bad  state  indeed.  The 
bed-clothes  were  in  disorder  and  not  clean,  for  he  made  a 
wretched  shift  of  washing.  It  was  a  terror  to  him.  The 
roof  leaked,  causing  things,  some  of  them,  to  remain  damp 
for  weeks  at  a  time,  but  he  was  getting  into  that  brooding 
state  where  he  would  accept  anything  rather  than  exert  him 
self.  He  preferred  to  pace  slowly  to  and  fro  or  to  sit  and 
think. 

By  twelve  o'clock  of  this  particular  night  he  was  asleep, 
however,  and  by  two  had  waked  again.  The  moon  by  this 
time  had  shifted  to  a  position  on  the  western  side  of  the 
house,  and  it  now  shone  in  through  the  windows  of  the  liv 
ing-room  and  those  of  the  kitchen  beyond.  A  certain  com 
bination  of  furniture — a  chair  near  a  table  with  his  coat  on 
it,  the  half-open  kitchen  door  casting  a  shadow,  and  the  posi 
tion  of  a  lamp  near  a  paper — gave  him  an  exact "  representa 
tion  of  Phoebe  leaning  over  the  table  as  he  had  often  seen  her 
do  in  life.  It  gave  him  a  great  start.  Could  it  be  she — or 
her  ghost?  He  had  scarcely  ever  believed  in  spirits;  and 
still — .  He  looked  at  her  fixedly  in  the  feeble  half-light, 
his  old  hair  tingling  oddly  at  the  roots,  and  then  sat  up. 
The  figure  did  not  move.  He  put  his  thin  legs  out  of  the 
bed  and  sat  looking  at  her,  wondering  if  this  could  really  be 
Phoebe.  They  had  talked  of  ghosts  often  in  their  lifetime, 
of  apparitions  and  omens;  but  they  had  never  agreed  that 
such  things  could  be.  It  had  never  been  a  part  of  his  wife's 
creed  that  she  could  have  a  spirit  that  could  return  to  walk 
the  earth.  Her  after-world  was  quite  a  different  affair,  a 
vague  heaven,  no  less,  from  which  the  righteous  did  not 
trouble  to  return.  Yet  here  she  was  now,  bending  over  the 
table  in  her  black  skirt  and  gray  shawl,  her  pale  profile  out 
lined  against  the  moonlight. 

"Phoebe/'  he  called,  thrilling  from  head  to  toe,  and  putting 
out  one  bony  hand,  "have  yuh  come  back?" 

The  figure  did  not  stir,  and  he  arose  and  walked  uncer 
tainly  to  the  door,  looking  at  it  fixedly  the  while.  As  he 
drew  near,  however,  the  apparition  resolved  itself  into  its 
primal  content — his  old  coat  over  the  high  backed  chair,  the 
lamp  by  the  paper,  the  half-open  door. 


302    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"Well,"  he  said  to  himself,  his  mouth  open,  "I  thought 
shore  I  saw  her."  And  he  ran  his  hand  strangely  and 
vaguely  through  his  hair,  the  while  his  nervous  tension  re 
laxed.  Vanished  as  it  had,  it  gave  him  the  idea  that  she 
might  return. 

Another  night,  because  of  this  first  illusion,  and  because 
his  mind  was  now  constantly  on  her  and  he  was  old,  he 
looked  out  of  tlie  window  that  was  nearest  his  bed  and  com 
manded  a  hen-coop  and  pig-pen  and  a  part  of  the  wagon- 
shed,  and  there,  a  faint  mist  exuding  from  the  damp  of  the 
ground,  he  thought  he  saw  her  again.  It  was  one  of  those 
little  wisps  of  mist,  one  of  those  faint  exhalations  of  the  earth 
that  rise  in  a  cool  night  after  a  warm  day,  and  nicker  like 
small  white  cypresses  of  fog  before  they  disappear.  In  life 
it  had  been  a  custom  of  hers  to  cross  this  lot  from  her  kitchen 
door  to  the  pig-pen  to  throw  in  any  scrap  that  was  left  from 
her  cooking,  and  here  she  was  again.  He  sat  up  and 
watched  it  strangely,  doubtfully,  because  of  his  previous 
experience,  but  inclined,  because  of  the  nervous  titillation 
that  passed  over  his  body,  to  believe  that  spirits  really  were, 
and  that  Phoebe,  who  would  be  concerned  because  of  his 
lonely  state,  must  be  thinking  about  him,  and  hence  return 
ing.  What  other  way  would  she  have?  How  otherwise 
could  she  express  herself?  It  would  be  within  the  province 
of  her  charity  so  to  do,  and  like  her  loving  interest  in  him. 
He  quivered  and  watched  it  eagerly;  but,  a  faint  breath  of 
air  stirring,  it  wound  away  toward  the  fence  and  disappeared. 

A  third  night,  as  he  was  actually  dreaming,  some  ten  days 
later,  she  came  to  his  bedside  and  put  her  hand  on  his  head. 

"Poor  Henry!"  she  said.     "It's  too  bad." 

He  roused  out  of  his  sleep,  actually  to  see  her,  he  thought, 
moving  from  his  bed-room  into  the  one  living-room,  her 
figure  a  shadowy  mass  of  black.  The  weak  straining  of  his 
eyes  caused  little  points  of  light  to  nicker  about  the  outlines 
of  her  form.  He  arose,  greatly  astonished,  walked  the  floor 
in  the  cool  room,  convinced  that  Phoebe  was  coming  back  to 
him.  If  he  only  thought  sufficiently,  if  he  made  it  perfectly 
clear  by  his  feeling  that  he  needed  her  greatly,  she  would 
come  back,  this  kindly  wife,  and  tell  him  what  to  do.  She 


THE  LOST  PHCEBE  303 

would  perhaps  be  with  him  much  of  the  time,  in  the  night, 
anyhow;  and  that  would  make  him  less  lonely,  this  state 
more  endurable. 

In  age  and  with  the  feeble  it  is  not  such  a  far  cry  from 
the  subtleties  of  illusion  to  actual  hallucination,  and  in  due 
time  this  transition  was  made  for  Henry.  Night  after  night 
he  waited,  expecting  her  return.  Once  in  his  weird  mood 
he  thought  he  saw  a  pale  light  moving  about  the  room,  and 
another  time  he  thought  he  saw  her  walking  in  the  orchard 
after  dark.  It  was  one  morning  when  the  details  of  his 
lonely  state  were  virtually  unendurable  that  he  woke  with 
the  thought  that  she  was  not  dead.  How  he  had  arrived  at 
this  conclusion  it  is  hard  to  say.  His  mind  had  gone.  In 
its  place  was  a  fixed  illusion.  He  and  Phcebe  had  had  a 
senseless  quarrel.  He  had  reproached  her  for  not  leaving  his 
pipe  where  he  was  accustomed  to  find  it,  and  she  had  left. 
It  was  an  aberrated  fulfillment  of  her  old  jesting  threat  that 
if  he  did  not  behave  himself  she  would  leave  him. 

"I  guess  I  could  find  yuh  ag'in,"  he  had  always  said. 
But  her  cackling  threat  had  always  been : 

"Yuh'll  not  find  me  if  I  ever  leave  yuh.  I  guess  I  kin  git 
some  place  where  yuh  can't  find  me." 

This  morning  when  he  arose  he  did  not  think  to  build  the 
fire  in  the  customary  way  or  to  grind  his  coffee  and  cut  his 
bread,  as  was  his  wont,  but  solely  to  meditate  as  to  where  he 
should  search  for  her  and  how  he  should  induce  her  to  come 
back.  Recently  the  one  horse  had  been  dispensed  with 
because  he  found  it  cumbersome  and  beyond  his  needs.  He 
took  down  his  soft  crush  hat  after  he  had  dressed  himself, 
a,  new  glint  of  interest  and  determination  in  his  eye,  and 
taking  his  black  crook  cane  from  behind  the  door,  where  he 
had  always  placed  it,  started  out  briskly  to  look  for  her 
among  the  nearest  neighbors.  His  old  shoes  clumped 
soundly  in  the  dust  as  he  walked,  and  his  gray-black  locks, 
now  grown  rather  long,  straggled  out  in  a  dramatic  fringe  or 
halo  from  under  his  hat.  His  short  coat  stirred  busily  as  he 
walked,  and  his  hands  and  face  were  peaked  and  pale. 

"Why,  hello,  Henry!  Where're  yuh  goin'  this  mornin'?" 
inquired  Farmer  Dodge,  who,  hauling  a  load  of  wheat  to 


304   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

market,  encountered  him  on  the  public  road.  He  had  not 
seen  the  aged  farmer  in  months,  not  since  his  wife's  death, 
and  he  wondered  now,  seeing  him  looking  so  spry. 

"Yuh  ain't  seen  Phoebe,  have  yuh?"  inquired  the  old  man, 
looking  up  quizzically. 

"Phoebe  who?"  inquired  Farmer  Dodge,  not  for  the  men 
ment  connecting  the  name  with  Henry's  dead  wife. 

"Why,  my  wife  Phcebe,  o'  course.  Who  do  yuh  s'pose  I 
mean?"  He  stared  up  with  a  pathetic  sharpness  of  glance 
from  under  his  shaggy,  gray  eyebrows. 

"Wall,  I'll  swan,  Henry,  yuh  ain't  jokin',  are  yuh?"  said 
the  solid  Dodge,  a  pursy  man,  with  a  smooth,  hard,  red  face. 
"It  can't  be  your  wife  yuh're  talkin'  about.  She's  dead." 

"Dead!  Shucks!"  retorted  the  demented  Reifsneider. 
"She  left  me  early  this  mornin',  while  I  was  sleepin'.  She 
allus  got  up  to  build  the  fire,  but  she's  gone  now.  We  had 
a  little  spat  last  night,  an'  I  guess  that's  the  reason.  But  I 
guess  I  kin  find  her.  She's  gone  over  to  Matilda  Race's, 
that's  where  she's  gone." 

He  started  briskly  up  the  road,  leaving  the  amazed  Dodge 
to  stare  in  wonder  after  him. 

"Well,  I'll  be  switched!"  he  said  aloud  to  himself.  "He's 
clean  out'n  his  head.  That  poor  old  feller's  been  livin* 
down  there  till  he's  gone  outen  his  mind.  I'll  have  to  notify 
the  authorities."  And  he  flicked  his  whip  with  great  enthu 
siasm.  "Geddap!"  he  said,  and  was  off. 

Reifsneider  met  no  one  else  in  this  poorly  populated  region 
until  he  reached  the  whitewashed  fence  of  Matilda  Race  and 
her  husband  three  miles  away.  He  had  passed  several  other 
houses  en  route,  but  these  not  being  within  the  range  of  his 
illusion  were  not  considered.  His  wife,  who  had  known 
Matilda  well,  must  be  here.  He  opened  the  picket-gate 
which  guarded  the  walk,  and  stamped  briskly  up  to  the  door. 

"Why,  Mr.  Reifsneider,"  exclaimed  old  Matilda  herself, 
a  stout  woman,  looking  out  of  the  door  in  answer  to  his 
knock,  "what  brings  yuh  here  this  mornin'?" 

"Is  Phoebe  here?"  he  demanded  eagerly. 

"Phoebe  who?  What  Phcebe?"  replied  Mrs.  Race,  curious 
as  to  this  sudden  development  of  energy  on  his  part. 


THE  LOST  PHCEBE  305 

"Why,  my  Phoebe,  o'  course.  My  wife  Phcebe.  Who  do 
yuh  s'pose?  Ain't  she  here  now?" 

"Lawsy  mel"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Race,  opening  her  mouth. 
"Yuh  pore  manl  So  you're  clean  out'n  your  mind  now. 
Yuh  come  right  in  and  sit  down.  I'll  git  yuh  a  cup  o* 
coffee.  O'  course  your  wife  ain't  here;  but  yuh  come  in  an* 
sit  down.  I'll  find  her  fer  yuh  after  a  while.  I  know  where 
she  is." 

The  old  farmer's  eyes  softened,  and  he  entered.  He  was 
so  thin  and  pale  a  specimen,  pantalooned  and  patriarchal, 
that  he  aroused  Mrs.  Race's  extremest  sympathy  as  he  took 
off  his  hat  and  laid  it  on  his  knees  quite  softly  and  mildly. 

"We  had  a  quarrel  last  night,  an'  she  left  me,"  he  volun 
teered. 

"Laws!  laws!"  sighed  Mrs.  Race,  there  being  no  one  pres 
ent  with  whom  to  share  her  astonishment  as  she  went  to  her 
kitchen.  "The  pore  man!  Now  somebody's  just  got  to  look 
after  him.  He  can't  be  allowed  to  run  around  the  country 
this  way  lookin'  for  his  dead  wife.  It's  tumble." 

She  boiled  him  a  pot  of  coffee  and  brought  in  some  of  her 
new-baked  bread  and  fresh  butter.  She  set  out  some  of  her 
best  jam  and  put  a  couple  of  eggs  to  boil,  lying  whole-heart 
edly  the  while. 

"Now  yuh  stay  right  there,  Uncle  Henry,  till  Jake  comes 
in,  an'  I'll  send  him  to  look  for  Phcebe.  I  think  it's  more'n 
likely  she's  over  to  Swinnerton  with  some  o*  her  friends. 
Anyhow,  we'll  find  out.  Now  yuh  just  drink  this  coffee  an* 
eat  this  bread.  Yuh  must  be  tired.  Yuh've  had  a  long 
walk  this  morninV  Her  idea  was  to  take  counsel  with  Jake, 
"her  man,"  and  perhaps  have  him  notify  the  authorities. 

She  bustled  about,  meditating  on  the  uncertainties  of  life, 
while  old  Reifsneider  thrummed  on  the  rim  of  his  hat  with 
his  pale  ringers  and  later  ate  abstractedly  of  what  she  offered. 
His  mind  was  on  his  wife,  however,  and  since  she  was  not 
here,  or  did  not  appear,  it  wandered  vaguely  away  to  a 
family  by  the  name  of  Murray,  miles  away  in  another  direc 
tion.  He  decided  after  a  time  that  he  would  not  wait  for 
Jack  Race  to  hunt  his  wife  but  would  seek  her  for  him- 
iclf.  He  must  be  on,  and  urge  her  to  come  back. 


306    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"Well,  I'll  be  goin',"  he  said,  getting  up  and  looking 
strangely  about  him.  "I  guess  she  didn't  come  here  after 
all.  She  went  over  to  the  Hurrays,  I  guess.  I'll  not  wait 
any  longer,  Mis'  Race.  There's  a  lot  to  do  over  to  the  house 
to-day."  And  out  he  marched  in  the  face  of  her  protests 
taking  to  the  dusty  road  again  in  the  warm  spring  sun,  his 
cane  striking  the  earth  as  he  went. 

It  was  two  hours  later  that  this  pale  figure  of  a  man  ap 
peared  in  the  Murrays'  doorway,  dusty,  perspiring,  eager. 
He  had  tramped  all  of  five  miles,  and  it  was  noon.  An 
amazed  husband  and  wife  of  sixty  heard  his  strange  query, 
and  realized  also  that  he  was  mad.  They  begged  him  to  stay 
to  dinner,  intending  to  notify  the  authorities  later  and  see 
what  could  be  done;  but  though  he  stayed  to  partake  of  a 
little  something,  he  did  not  stay  long,  and  was  off  again  to 
another  distant  farmhouse,  his  idea  of  many  things  to  do 
and  his  need  of  Phcebe  impelling  him.  So  it  went  for  that 
day  and  the  next  and  the  next,  the  circle  of  his  inquiry  ever 
widening. 

The  process  by  which  a  character  assumes  the  significance 
of  being  peculiar,  his  antics  weird,  yet  harmless,  in  such  a 
community  is  often  involute  and  pathetic.  This  day,  as  has 
been  said,  saw  Reifsneider  at  other  doors,  eagerly  asking  his 
unnatural  question,  and  leaving  a  trail  of  amazement,  sym 
pathy,  and  pity  in  his  wake.  Although  the  authorities  were 
informed — the  county  sheriff,  no  less — it  was  not  deemed 
advisable  to  take  him  into  custody;  for  when  those  who  knew 
old  Henry,  and  had  for  so  long,  reflected  on  the  condition  of 
the  county  insane  asylum,  a  place  which,  because  of  the  pov 
erty  of  the  district,  was  of  staggering  aberration  and  sick 
ening  environment,  it  was  decided  to  let  him  remain  at  large ; 
for,  strange  to  relate,  it  was  found  on  investigation  that  at 
night  he  returned  peaceably  enough  to  his  lonesome  domicile 
there  to  discover  whether  his  wife  had  returned,  and  to  brood 
in  loneliness  until  the  morning.  Who  would  lock  up  a  thin, 
eager,  seeking  old  man  with  iron-gray  hair  and  an  attitude 
of  kindly,  innocent  inquiry,  particularly  when  he  was  well 
known  for  a  past  of  only  kindly  servitude  and  reliability? 
Those  who  had  known  him  best  rather  agreed  that  he  should 


THE  LOST  PHCEBE  307 

be  allowed  to  roam  at  large.  He  could  do  no  harm.  There 
were  many  who  were  willing  to  help  him  as  to  food,  old 
clothes,  the  odds  and  ends  of  his  daily  life — at  least  at  first 
His  figure  after  a  time  became  not  so  much  a  common-place 
as  an  accepted  curiosity,  and  the  replies,  "Why,  no,  Henry; 
I  ain't  see  her,'*  or  "No,  Henry;  she  ain't  been  here  to-day," 
more  customary. 

For  several  years  thereafter  then  he  was  an  odd  figure  in 
the  sun  and  rain,  on  dusty  roads  and  muddy  ones,  encount 
ered  occasionally  in  strange  and  unexpected  places,  pursuing 
his  endless  search.  Undernourishment,  after  a  time,  al 
though  the  neighbors  and  those  who  knew  his  history  gladly 
contributed  from  their  store,  affected  his  body ;  for  he  walked 
much  and  ate  little.  The  longer  he  roamed  the  public  high 
way  in  this  manner,  the  deeper  became  his  strange  hallucina 
tion;  and  finding  it  harder  and  harder  to  return  from  his 
more  and  more  distant  pilgrimages,  he  finally  began  taking  a 
few  utensils  with  him  from  his  home,  making  a  small  package 
of  them,  in  order  that  he  might  not  be  compelled  to  return. 
In  an  old  tin  coffee-pot  of  large  size  he  placed  a  small  tin 
cup,  a  knife,  fork,  and  spoon,  some  salt  and  pepper,  and  to 
the  outside  of  it,  by  a  string  forced  through  a  pierced  hole, 
he  fastened  a  plate,  which  could  be  released,  and  which  was 
his  woodland  table.  It  was  no  trouble  for  him  to  secure  the 
little  food  that  he  needed,  and  with  a  strange,  almost  relig 
ious  dignity,  he  had  no  hesitation  in  asking  for  that  much. 
By  degrees  his  hair  became  longer  and  longer,  his  once  black 
hat  became  an  earthen  brown,  and  his  clothes  threadbare 
and  dusty. 

For  all  of  three  years  he  walked,  and  none  knew  how 
wide  were  his  perambulations,  nor  how  he  survived  the 
storms  and  cold.  They  could  not  see  him,  with  homely  rural 
understanding  and  forethought,  sheltering  himself  in  hay 
cocks,  or  by  the  sides  of  cattle,  whose  warm  bodies  protected 
him  from  the  cold,  and  whose  dull  understandings  were  not 
opposed  to  his  harmless  presence.  Overhanging  rocks  and 
trees  kept  him  at  times  from  the  rain,  and  a  friendly  hay-loft 
or  corn-crib  was  not  above  his  humble  consideration. 

The   involute    progression    of    hallucination    is    strange. 


308   THE  GREAT  MODERN^  AMERICAN  STORIES. 

From  asking  at  doors  and  being  constantly  rebuffed  or  de 
nied,  he  finally  came  to  the  conclusion  that  although  his 
Phcebe  might  not  be  in  any  of  the  houses  at  the  doors  of 
which  he  inquired,  she  might  nevertheless  be  within  the  sound 
of  his  voice.  And  so,  from  patient  inquiry,  he  began  to  call 
sad,  occasional  cries,  that  ever  and  anon  waked  the  quiet 
landscapes  and  ragged  hill  regions,  and  set  to  echoing  his 
thin  "O-o-o  Phcebe!  O-o-o  Phcebe!"  It  had  a  pathetic, 
albeit  insane,  ring,  and  many  a  farmer  or  plowboy  came  to 
know  it  even  from  afar  and  say,  "There  goes  old  Reif- 
sneider." 

Another  thing  that  puzzled  him  greatly  after  a  time  and 
after  many  hundreds  of  inquiries  was,  when  he  no  longer 
had  any  particular  dooryard  in  view  and  no  special  inquiry 
to  make,  which  way  to  go.  These  cross-roads,  which  occas 
ionally  led  in  four  or  even  six  directions,  came  after  a  time 
to  puzzle  him.  But  to  solve  this  knotty  problem,  which  be 
came  more  and  more  of  a  puzzle,  there  came  to  his  aid  another 
hallucination.  Phoebe's  spirit  or  some  power  of  the  air  or 
wind  or  nature  would  tell  him.  If  he  stood  at  the  centre  of 
the  parting  of  the  ways,  closed  his  eyes,  turned  thrice  about, 
and  called  "O-o-o  Phcebe!"  twice,  and  then  threw  his  cane 
straight  before  him,  that  would  surely  indicate  which  way  to 
go,  for  Phcebe,  or  one  of  these  mystic  powers  would  surely 
govern  its  direction  and  fall!  In  whichever  direction  it 
went,  even  though,  as  was  not  infrequently  the  case,  it  took 
him  back  along  the  path  he  had  already  come,  or  across 
fields,  he  was  not  so  far  gone  in  his  mind  but  that  he  gave 
himself  ample  time  to  search  before  he  called  again.  Also 
the  hallucination  seemed  to  persist  that  at  some  time  he 
would  surely  find  her.  There  were  hours  when  his  feet  were 
sore,  and  his  limbs  weary,  when  he  would  stop  in  the  heat  to 
wipe  his  seamed  brow,  or  in  the  cold  to  beat  his  arms.  Some 
times,  after  throwing  away  his  cane,  and  finding  it  indicat 
ing  the  direction  from  which  he  had  just  come,  he  would 
shake  his  head  wearily  and  philosophically,  as  if  contemp 
lating  the  unbelievable  or  an  untoward  fate,  and  then  start 
briskly  off.  His  strange  figure  came  finally  to  be  known  in 


THE  LOST  PHCEBE 

the  farthest  reaches  of  three  or  four  counties.  Old  Reif- 
sneider  was  a  pathetic  character.  His  fame  was  wide. 

Near  a  little  town  called  Watersville,  in  Green  County, 
perhaps  four  miles  from  that  minor  centre  of  human  activity, 
there  was  a  place  or  precipice  locally  known  as  the  Red 
Cliff,  a  sheer  wall  of  red  sandstone,  perhaps  a  hundred  feet 
high,  which  raised  its  sharp  face  for  half  a  mile  or  more 
above  the  fruitful  cornfields  and  orchards  that  lay  beneath, 
and  which  was  surmounted  by  a  thick  grove  of  trees.  The 
slope  that  slowly  led  up  to  it  from  the  opposite  side  was 
covered  by  a  rank  growth  of  beech,  hickory,  and  ash,  through 
which  threaded  a  number  of  wagon-tracks  crossing  at  vari 
ous  angles.  In  fair  weather  it  had  become  old  Reifsneider's 
habit,  so  inured  was  he  by  now  to  the  open,  to  make  his  bed 
in  some  such  patch  of  trees  as  this,  to  fry  his  bacon  or  boil 
his  eggs  at  the  foot  of  some  tree,  before  laying  himself  down 
for  the  night.  Occasionally,  so  light  and  inconsequential 
was  his  sleep,  he  would  walk  at  night.  More  often,  the 
moonlight  or  some  sudden  wind  stirring  in  the  trees  or  a 
reconnoitering  animal  arousing  him,  he  would  sit  up  and 
think,  or  pursue  his  quest  in  the  moonlight  or  the  dark,  a 
strange,  unnatural,  half  wild,  half  savage-looking  but  utterly 
harmless  creature,  calling  at  lonely  road  crossings,  staring  at 
dark  and  shuttered  houses,  and  wondering  where,  where 
Phoebe  could  really  be. 

That  particular  lull  that  comes  in  the  systole-diastole  of 
this  earthly  ball  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  invariably 
aroused  him,  and  though  he  might  not  go  any  farther  he 
would  sit  up  and  contemplate  the  darkness  or  the  stars,  won 
dering.  Sometimes  in  the  strange  processes  of  his  mind 
he  would  fancy  that  he  saw  moving  among  the  trees  the  figure 
of  his  lost  wife,  and  then  he  would  get  up  to  follow,  taking 
his  utensils,  always  on  a  string,  and  his  cane.  If  she  seemed 
to  evade  him  too  easily  he  would  run,  or  plead,  or,  sud 
denly  losing  track  of  the  fancied  figure,  stand  awed  or  dis 
appointed,  grieving  for  the  moment  over  the  almost  insur 
mountable  difficulties  of  his  search. 

It  was  in  the  seventh  year  of  these  hopeless  peregrinations, 
in  the  dawn  of  a  similar  springtime  to  that  in  which  his  wife 


3io   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

had  died,  that  he  came  at  last  one  night  to  the  vicinity  of  this 
self-same  patch  that  crowned  the  rise  to  the  Red  Cliff.  His 
far-flung  cane,  used  as  a  divining-rod  at  the  last  cross 
roads,  had  brought  him  hither.  He  had  walked  many, 
many  miles.  It  was  after  ten  o'clock  at  night,  and  he  was 
very  weary.  Long  wandering  and  little  eating  had  left  him 
but  a  shadow  of  his  former  self.  It  was  a  question  now  not 
so  much  of  physical  strength  but  of  spiritual  endurance 
which  kept  him  up.  He  had  scarcely  eaten  this  day,  and  now, 
exhausted,  he  set  himself  down  in  the  dark  to  rest  and  possi 
bly  to  sleep. 

Curiously  on  this  occasion  a  strange  suggestion  of  the 
presence  of  his  wife  surrounded  him.  It  would  not  be  long 
now,  he  counseled  with  himself,  although  the  long  months 
had  brought  him  nothing,  until  he  should  see  her,  talk  to 
her.  He  fell  asleep  after  a  time,  his  head  on  his  knees.  At 
midnight  the  moon  began  to  rise,  and  at  two  in  the  morning, 
his  wakeful  hour,  was  a  large  silver  disk  shining  through  the 
trees  to  the  east.  He  opened  his  eyes  when  the  radiance  be 
came  strong,  making  a  silver  pattern  at  his  feet  and  lighting 
the  woods  with  strange  lusters  and  silvery,  shadowy  forms. 
As  usual,  his  old  notion  that  his  wife  must  be  near  occurred 
to  him  on  this  occasion,  and  he  looked  about  him  with  a 
speculative,  anticipatory  eye.  What  was  it  that  moved  in 
the  distant  shadows  along  the  path  by  which  he  had  entered 
— a  pale,  flickering  will-o'-the-wisp  that  bobbed  gracefully 
among  the  trees  and  riveted  his  expectant  gaze?  Moonlight 
and  shadows  combined  to  give  it  a  strange  form  and  a 
stranger  reality,  this  fluttering  of  bog-fire  or  dancing  of  wan 
dering  fire-flies.  Was  it  truly  his  lost  Phcebe?  By  a  cir 
cuitous  route  it  passed  about  him,  and  in  his  fevered  state 
he  fancied  that  he  could  see  the  very  eyes  of  her,  not  as 
she  was  when  he  last  saw  her  in  the  black  dress  and  shawl, 
but  now  a  strangely  younger  Phcebe,  gayer,  sweeter,  the  one 
whom  he  had  known  years  before  as  a  girl.  Old  Reifsnei- 
der  got  up.  He  had  been  expecting  and  dreaming  of  this 
hour  all  these  years,  and  now  as  he  saw  the  feeble  light 
dancing  lightly  before  him  he  peered  at  it  questioningly,  one 
thin  hand  in  his  gray  hair. 


THE  LOST  PHCEBE  311 

Of  a  sudden  there  came  to  him  now  for  the  first  time  in 
many  years  the  full  charm  of  her  girlish  figure  as  he  had 
known  it  in  boyhood,  the  pleasing,  sympathetic  smile,  the 
brown  hair,  the  blue  sash  she  had  once  worn  about  her  waist 
at  a  picnic,  her  gray,  graceful  movements.  He  walked 
around  the  base  of  the  tree,  straining  with  his  eyes,  forgetting 
for  once  his  cane  and  utensils,  and  following  eagerly  after. 
On  she  moved  before  him,  a  will-o'-the-wisp  of  the  spring, 
a  little  flame  above  her  head,  and  it  seemed  as  though  among 
the  small  saplings  of  ash  and  beech  and  the  thick  trunks  of 
hickory  and  elm  that  she  signaled  with  a  young,  a  lightsome 
hand. 

"O  Phcebe!  Phoebe!"  he  called.  "Have  yuh  really 
come?  Have  yuh  really  answered  me?"  And  hurrying 
faster,  he  fell  once,  scrambling  lamely  to  his  feet,  only  to 
see  the  light  in  the  distance  dancing  illusively  on.  On  and 
on  he  hurried  until  he  was  fairly  running,  brushing  his  rag 
ged  arms  against  the  trees,  striking  his  hands  and  face 
against  impeding  twigs.  His  hat  was  gone,  his  lungs  were 
breathless,  his  reason  quite  astray,  when  coming  to  the  edge 
of  the  cliff  he  saw  her  below  among  a  silvery  bed  of  apple- 
trees  now  blooming  in  the  spring. 

"O  Phcebe!"  he  called.  "O  Phcebe!  Oh,  no,  don't  leave 
me!"  And  feeling  the  lure  of  a  world  where  love  was 
young  and  Phcebe,  as  this  vision  presented  her,  a  delightful 
epitome  of  their  quondam  youth,  he  gave  a  gay  cry  of  "Oh, 
wait,  Phcebe!"  and  leaped. 

Some  farmer-boys,  reconnoitering  this  region  of  bounty 
and  prospect  some  few  days  afterward,  found  first  the  tin 
utensils  tied  together  under  the  tree  where  he  had  left  them, 
and  then  later  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  pale,  broken,  but  elate, 
a  molded  smile  of  peace  and  delight  upon  his  lips,  his  body, 
His  old  hat  was  discovered  lying  under  some  low-growing 
saplings,  the  twigs  of  which  had  held  it  back.  No  one  of  all 
the  simple  population  knew  how  eagerly  and  joyously  he  had 
found  his  lost  mate. 


A  FAILURE  * 

By  EDITH  WYATT 

THROUGH  the  rooms  and  halls  of  a  high  building  on 
Wabash  Avenue  there  sound  all  day,  and  sometimes 
far  into  the  night,  the  note  and  phrase  and  rhythm  of 
beating  music.  Scales  and  chords,  throbbing  violin  tones, 
clear  piano  arpeggios,  and  soaring  voices  quiver  in  the  air; 
and  almost  at  the  same  moment  one  may  hear  wavering 
through  the  open  doors  of  studios  and  practice-rooms  en 
deavor  at  the  technique  of  art,  and  its  result  swelling  through 
the  transoms  of  music  and  concert-halls. 

In  one  of  the  rooms  of  this  building  toiled  like  a  galley- 
slave  Professor  Alberto  Wright,  a  violin  master.  He  was  a 
tall,  thin,  brown  gentleman,  of  Italian-American  parentage, 
dressed  always  in  Prince  Albert  coat,  tapering  gray  trousers, 
and  a  puffing  white  satin  tie.  In  the  winter  he  wore  an 
overcoat  with  a  deep  chinchilla  collar,  and  it  was  in  this  he 
had  his  photograph  taken  to  give  to  the  pupils  at  Christmas 
time,  with  "From  your  loving  teacher,  Alberto  C.  Wright," 
written  in  a  swashing,  black  hand  across  the  corner. 

Far  from  being  a  loving  teacher,  Professor  Alberto  was  as 
cross  and  tyrannical  a  master  as  possible.  Still  his  pupils 
all  liked  him,  and  the  more  sensible  stoutly  admired  him, 
for  his  work  was  done  with  honesty  and  enthusiasm;  and 
his  crossness  arose  from  a  native  inability  to  understand  why 
any  moral  and  intelligent  person  should  do  otherwise  than 
devote  his  whole  time  and  energies  to  learning  the  violin.  A 
few  of  his  pupils  really  were  inspired  by  him  to  such  a  de 
votion;  the  rest  were  chiefly  without  talent  or  ear,  inade 
quately  diligent,  and  horribly  berated ;  but  among  the  inade- 

*By  permission  of,  and  arrangement  with,  Doubleday,  Page  & 
Company,  and  the  author. 

312 


A  FAILURE  313 

quately  diligent  was  one  pupil  who  had  a  very  fine  musical 
talent. 

This  was  a  Southern  girl,  a  Miss  Hallie  Patterson,  gifted 
with  a  quick  ear,  an  instinctive  musical  understanding,  and 
a  talent  for  sympathetic  expression  on  the  violin.  She  had 
played  it  ever  since  she  was  four  years  old,  when  she  had 
picked  it  up  from  her  father's  Negro-man,  Poley. 

Miss  Hallie  was  extremely  pretty,  with  brown  curls  and 
lazy,  drifting  eyes;  she  dressed  outrageously,  almost  always 
wearing  her  brother's  round  felt  hat;  and  she  was  so  indo 
lent  that  Professor  Alberto  often  nearly  wept  at  her  slov 
enly  runs  and  double  thirds.  She  lived  with  her  father,  Dr. 
Patterson,  her  semi-invalid  mother,  Mrs.  Patterson,  her  sis 
ter,  Linda,  her  young  brother,  Clement,  and  Poley,  in  a 
large  frame  house,  out  on  the  West  Side.  When  the  doctor 
had  moved  into  this  house,  twelve  years  before,  he  had  had 
the  ceilings  frescoed,  velvet  carpets  put  on  the  floors,  and 
small  statuettes  of  Italian  marble  placed  at  the  windows; 
and  the  house  had  received  almost  no  attention  since.  Mrs. 
Patterson  cared  not  a  pin  for  the  place.  The  doctor,  after 
his  one  week's  brilliant  dash  into  housekeeping,  was  soon  ab 
sorbed  in  his  business  again ;  and  Hallie  and  Linda  managed 
the  house  and  brought  themselves  up,  with  Poley's  assistance. 

They  certainly  managed  the  house  very  ill.  It  was  bare 
and  dingy  and  almost  always  so  cold  that  one  had  to  wear  a 
shawl.  Hallie,  Linda,  and  Mrs.  Patterson  always  wore 
shawls;  Clement  grumbled  frightfully  about  the  cold,  and  in 
the  wintriest  weather  kept  his  coat-collar  ostentatiously 
turned  up,  and  wore  a  bicycle-cap  during  dinner,  while 
Professor  Alberto,  young  Mr.  Waters,  Claudie  Dawson,  and 
other  youthful  admirers  of  Miss  Hallie  and  Miss  Linda, 
often  sat  through  the  meal  at  the  doctor's  with  teeth  posi 
tively  chattering.  Hallie  and  Linda  had  left  school  when 
they  were  about  twelve  years  old,  and  they  spent  all  their 
time  in  taking  drives  in  a  shambling  cast-off  phaeton  of  the 
doctor's  with  an  old  family-horse,  in  talking  to  a  pet  rac 
coon  in  the  back  yard,  and  in  receiving  calls.  They  were 
both  pretty,  both  entirely  amiable  and  indolent  and  devoted 
to  easy,  unambitious  pleasures;  and  they  both  exercised  a 


314   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

remarkable  fascination  over  men  and  boys  of  all  kinds,  so 
that  when  Miss  Hallie  was  not  driving  in  the  phaeton  or 
feeding  the  coon,  her  attention  was  always  occupied  with 
some  affair. 

She  simply  had  no  conception  of  work,  and  when  Professor 
Alberto  would  ask,  crossly,  "Miss  Hallie,  might  I  ask  in 
what  valuable  way  you  spend  your  time  that  not  one  scrap 
is  left  for  practice?"  she  would  merely  glance  non-commit- 
tally  around  the  room,  smiling  sweetly. 

"Will  you  do  me  the  goodness  to  tell  me  that,  Miss  Hallie  ?" 

"Why,  Mistah  Wright,  the  reason  I  coulden  practice  yes- 
tahday  was,  I  jus'  ran  out  to  Austin  with  Mistah  Watahs 
and  Sist'  Linda  and  a  friend  to  get  a  few  wild-flowahs." 

Professor  Alberto  nearly  choked  with  rage  at  these  mo 
ments.  In  his  early  acquaintance  with  Miss  Hallie  he  had 
visited  the  Pattersons  in  the  hope  of  inducing  Mrs.  Patterson 
to  spur  her  daughter  to  practice — a  hope  soon  dashed. 

"Ah  wish  Hallie  would  practice  a  little,"  she  said,  plain 
tively,  in  reply  to  Professor  Alberto's  remarks,  "though  Ah'd 
rathah  she  took  the  piano  instead  of  the  fiddle,  it  seems  so 
much  moah  lady-like.  A'hm  passionat'ly  fond  of  music 
mahself,  Mistah  Wright.  Ah  think  every  lady  ought  to 
know  a  little  something  about  it — an'  that's  why  Ah  wanted 
to  have  daughtah  take  it  up." 

Mr.  Wright  twisted  slightly  in  his  chair. 

"Do  you  play  Juanita,  Mistah  Wright?  It's  right 
pretty — Clemmie,  deah,  please  don't  do  that.  It  looks  so 
rude—" 

Clement  was  carelessly  chinning  himself  at  the  parlor  tran 
som. 

"Don't  you  think  so,  Professor?"  Mr.  Wright  glanced 
discreetly  at  the  floor.  "The'  do  get  on  my  nerves  some 
times,  Mistah  Wright,  racketing  around  the  way  the'  do. 
Ah  jus'  can't  do  anything  with  them.  The'  don't  pay  any 
attention  to  mah  advice'.  Daughtah  Linda  sometimes  she 
almost  weahs  me  to  the  bone.  Now  theah  was  Mistah  Roy 
Pottah,  a  lovely  fellow.  Ah've  almost  nevah  been  so  taken 
with  any  of  the  guhls'  company  as  Ah  was  with  Mistah  Roy 
Pottah."  She  lowered  her  voice.  "And  Jetuhmined  to 


A  FAILURE  315 

many  daughtah  Linda.  Well.  He  took  it  very  well.  As 
Ah  say,  he  was  a  lovely  fellow;  and  so  sweet  with  Clemmie. 
He  gave  him  moah  lovely  books,  Willie's  Trial  and  His 
One  Fault:' 

"Darned  old  stiff,"  muttered  Clement. 

"And  now  he  is  engaged  to  a  lovely  guhl  in  Kans'  City. 
Someone,  Ah  hope,  who  can  appreciate  him,"  she  raised  her 
voice  a  little  with  didactic  intent  to  strike  the  ear  of  Miss 
Linda,  passing  at  the  moment  in  teaching  the  five-step  to 
Claudie  Dawson. 

The  next  morning  at  breakfast  Mrs.  Patterson  observed 
plaintively  to  Hallie: 

"Daughtah,  Ah  think  you  ought  to  try  to  practice  moah 
foah  Mistah  Wright.  He  is  a  chawming  gentleman,  and  Ah 
can  see  he  is  jus'  wrapped  up  in  his  music." 

"Well,  mother,  I  will.  But  Clem  hid  my  violin  yes 
terday." 

"Yes,  sir.  You  bet  I  did;  an'  the  next  time  you  borrow 
my  rub'  boots  without  telling  me,  an'  I  look  for  'em  for  an 
hour,  I'll  hide  it  again." 

"Hush,  Clemmie!  Daughtah,  Ah  wish  you  wouldn't  bor 
row  Clemmie's  things  so  much.  Ah  hate  to  see  you  in  his 
hats  the  whole  time;  and  Ah  don't  like  to  see  you  wearing 
that  black  lace  scarf  around  your  neck  every  day,  Hallie.  It 
is  handsome,  Ah  will  allow,  an*  becoming — but  so  odd. 
Othah  young  ladies  weah  linen  collahs." 

"Well,  I  asked  Poley  to  get  me  some  collars  downtown." 

"Miss  Hallie,  clean  fergit  tell  you.  Dee  all  out  of  youah 
size.  Dee  get  it  in  to-day. 

This  was  the  manner  of  Miss  Hallie's  spurring  to  work. 
However,  one  spring,  after  a  winter  of  blame  and  despair 
with  Mr.  Wright,  she  was  suddenly  inspired  with  an  inten 
tion  to  do  better.  After  all,  she  liked  music  better  than  any 
thing  else;  and  the  long  effort  of  Mr.  Wright  and  the  popu 
larity  and  success  of  a  celebrated  violinist  visiting  the  city 
touched  her  with  a  wish  to  endeavor  to  succeed  in  her  art 
and  with  an  impatience  of  her  technical  faults. 

She  practiced  for  a  month  diligently  and  with  good  re 
sults,  and  when,  late  in  May,  Mr.  Wright  determined  to 


316   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

give  a  chamber  concert,  a  pupils'  recital,  and  bestow  on  her 
the  most  important  numbers,  she  was  more  than  ever  stirred. 

For  while  Mr.  Wright  with  one  hand  depressed  this  con 
cert  to  the  level  of  a  simple,  almost  domestic  occasion,  with 
the  other  he  raised  it  to  the  rank  of  an  important  musical 
event. 

Hallie  thought  very  little  about  it  at  first;  but  as  time 
went  on  she  became  more  and  more  painfully  aware  that 
she  must  keep  up  to  the  mark — a  feeling  she  extremely  dis 
liked. 

Mr.  Wright,  meanwhile,  sometimes  pretended  that  the  con 
cert  was  of  no  moment,  and  at  others  represented  to  Miss 
Hallie  that  it  was  the  beginning  of  her  musical  career  and 
if  she  failed  in  it  she  would  be  little  better  than  damned. 
He  kept  inviting  more  and  more  musicians,  musical  critics, 
and  friends  of  musical  art  to  come  to  the  chamber  concert; 
he  had  one  pupil  he  particularly  wished  they  should  hear. 
He  thought  she  had  a  career  before  her  since  she  certainly 
had  a  brilliant  musical  talent. 

On  the  day  of  the  concert  Mr.  Wright  was  so  nervous  that 
he  even  communicated  his  nervousness  to  Miss  Hallie.  He 
told  her  several  times  that  she  must  not  forget  that  someone 
would  carry  in  her  violin-stand  and  put  it  up  for  her.  At 
the  same  time  she  must  forget  the  audience  and  put  all  her 
energies  into  her  work.  But  remember  to  stand  facing  the 
house;  and  not  to  keep  looking  at  the  piano  when  it  was  time 
for  it  to  come  in,  in  the  concerto — that  gave  a  very  awk 
ward  appearance.  She  ought  to  have  flowers.  Everything 
counted  in  the  beginning  of  a  career.  He  tore  out  at  the  last 
moment  and  bought  her  some — no  one  else,  he  was  sure, 
could  do  it  so  quickly — and  handed  them  to  her  furiously. 

Looking  out  from  the  side  of  the  concert-stage,  poor  Miss 
Hallie  could  see  that  the  chamber  was  crowded,  and  with  a 
critical,  musical  audience;  though  in  the  front  row  sat  a 
comfortable  group  of  Dr.  Patterson,  Clement,  Linda,  Claudie 
Dawson,  and  several  of  the  youthful  admirers.  Poley  was 
wandering  restlessly  near  the  entrance.  He  was  almost  as 
nervous  as  Professor  Alberto. 

The  concert  opened  with  two  colorless  trilling  numbers 


'A  FAILURE  317 

by  frightened  pupils;  and  then  Miss  Hallie  came  out  on  the 
platform  with  her  violin.  She  looked  very  youthful  and  a 
little  pale  and  scared  in  Mrs.  Patterson's  best  black  grena 
dine  dress  and  a  little  bonnet.  Her  hand  was  quivering  and 
she  was  unable  to  lift  her  eyes  to  the  audience.  She  settled 
her  violin  under  her  chin,  tightened  a  string  with  a  desperate 
sense  that  now,  now  was  actually  the  moment  she  had 
thought  about  so  long,  and  began  the  introduction  of  the 
Norwegian  Dance  of  Mr.  Wright's  selection. 

Once  the  first  familiar  notes  had  sounded  she  was  at  ease 
in  her  performance.  She  played  with  her  native  perception 
and  fire  and  more  than  her  ordinary  power  and  mastery. 
She  completely  filled  her  hearers'  sense  and  her  own  with  the 
splendid  rhythm  of  the  fierce  Norwegian  music,  until,  ab 
sorbed  in  her  rendition,  she  glanced  up  carelessly,  and,  at 
the  sight  of  all  the  faces  and  eyes  about  her,  panic  possessed 
her. 

Her  hand  faltered.  Grieg's  music  vanished  from  her 
mind  as  though  it  had  been  swept  off  with  a  sponge.  She 
turned  white  and  giddy,  the  room  began  to  reel  before  her; 
and  then  it  seemed  she  plunged  down  a  bottomless  abyss. 

The  next  thing  she  knew  was  that  she  was  lying  on  a 
couch  in  Professor  Alberto's  studio,  with  her  father  standing 
beside  her  and  Poley,  Clement,  and  Linda  looking  in  at  her 
from  the  door. 

"Lie  still,  daughter,  lie  still,"  said  her  father,  gently.  He 
poured  a  little  wine  for  her,  and  after  she  had  drunk  it  Miss 
Hallie  sat  up  on  the  couch  and  began  to  cry.  She  could 
hear  the  music  of  the  next  number  sounding  dimly  through 
the  transom.  "Oh,  how  terribly  Mistah  Wright  will  feel," 
she  said.  "I  don't  know  what  was  the  matter  with  me. 
Heavens !  I  nevah  will  go  on  that  platform  again.  I  want 
you  to  tell  Professor  that  I  nevah  will  go  neah  that  platform. 
I  simply  can't  stand  it." 

The  doctor  gazed  on  her  in  distress  and  softly  closed  the 
door  on  Linda,  Clement,  and  Poley.  He  soothed  Miss  Hallie 
as  well  as  he  could,  gave  her  a  little  wine,  took  off  her  unac 
customed  bonnet,  and  clumsily  smoothed  her  hair,  with 
anxiety  and  tenderness  written  on  his  lank,  kind  face. 


318   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES^ 

"And,  besides,  I  can't  stand  it  to  see  Mistah  Wright  again, 
befoh  we  go  home." 

The  recollection  of  Mr.  Wright's  uncontrolled  gloom  arose 
before  the  doctor.  "Perhaps  that  would  be  as  well,"  he 
assented. 

"My  daughter,"  he  continued,  gravely.  "I  know  you  feel 
now  that  life  is  closed  to  you.  At  your  age  that  is  natural. 
I  thought  many  times  when  I  was  a  young  man  that  I  could 
not  possibly  continue  in  the  medical  careah."  He  looked 
down  at  the  floor.  "And  I  never  can  have  the  success  I 
once  expected.  But  my  work  has  been  very  much  to  me. 
You  know  we  sometimes  get  more  ourselves  from  our  work 
than  anyone  else  could  give  us."  Miss  Hallie  was  an  honest 
girl.  "But,  fathah,"  she  said,  quakingly,  "I  nevah  took  my 
music  like  that.  I  don't  really  care  to  practise  much,  though 
I'm  awfully  fond  of  music.  I  like  it  about  as  much  as  any 
thing  I  know  of." 

"Well,  that  is  a  relief,  in  some  ways,"  said  the  doctor. 
"But  so  much  seemed  to  be  made  of  this." 

"No,  that  was  all  Mistah  Wright.  He  sort  of  worked  me 
up,  I  reckon.  He  always  said  I  hadn't  any  application  or  any 
ambition,  an'  I  guess  it's  true,  I  haven't."  The  tears  began 
to  fall  over  her  face. 

"Don't,  daughter,  don't,"  said  the  doctor,  hastily,  "it's  bad 
for  your  eyes,  my  dear." 

"Well,  fathah,  I  guess  if  I  had  ambition  I'd  cry  lots 
harder.  Dear!  How  disappointed  Poley  will  be,"  she  be 
gan  to  laugh  a  little,  and  the  doctor  smiled,  too,  more  from  a 
good-hearted  pleasure  at  seeing  her  rally  than  from  any 
humerous  perception  of  Poley's  attitude.  When  Miss  Hallie 
was  safely  started  for  home  in  the  carriage  with  Poley, 
the  doctor  waited  till  after  the  concert  was  over  and  the 
sympathetic  musical  friends  had  dispersed,  and  talked  long 
with  Mr.  Wright,  who  found  him  far  more  satisfactory  than 
any  other  of  the  Pattersons. 

"You  have  taught  my  daughter  nobly,  sir,"  he  said, 
"Nobly.  I  appreciate  your  work  with  her,  but  for  many 
reasons — temperamental  and  othah  reasons — she  could 
never  have  a  musical  careah.  In  my  profession,  and  aH 


A  FAILURE  319 

professional  work,  sir,  I  have  learned  to  appreciate  the 
necessity  of  not  yielding  to  a  sudden  mood,  and  ah — applica 
tion—" 

Professor  Alberto  nearly  fell  on  the  doctor's  neck. 

That  evening,  while  the  doctor  was  sitting  in  his  office, 
he  heard  Hallie's  violin  quivering  and  singing  through  the 
frescoed  parlors.  Mrs.  Patterson,  in  complainant  confi 
dences,  was  murmuring  to  young  Mr.  Waters  at  one  end  of 
the  room,  and  Clement,  Linda,  and  some  of  the  youthful 
admirers  were  sitting  out  on  the  front  steps,  all  rather  silent, 
and  a  little  tired  from  the  exhausting  day.  Linda  had  nearly 
fallen  asleep  once  or  twice. 

The  fragrance  of  Professor  Alberto's  roses  wafted  through 
the  empty  rooms  on  the  cool  spring  wind  through  the  open 
windows.  The  tones  of  Hallie's  violin  rose  and  fell  on  the 
still  air  in  the  Suwanee  River  and  Dixie,  and  in  their 
wild  lilting  melody  there  sounded  to  the  girl  all  the  joys  of 
her  regained  ease  and  liberty.  "And  I  wish  I  was  in  Dixie, 
Away!  Away!  In  Dixie's  land  I'll  take  my  stand,  to  live 
and  die  in  Dixie  Land";  here  for  no  reason  but  that  of 
countless  vague  associations  there  sounded  to  her  fancy  a 
hundred  happy  days  of  waltzing  and  dancing  in  her  father's 
parlors,  of  hours  in  the  barn  with  Poley  and  long  drives  with 
Linda  in  the  old  phaeton,  of  innumerable  worthless  moments 
radiant  with  careless  joy  and  freedom. 

The  lamp-light  from  the  street  fell  in  dusky  and  purple- 
flecked  lights  and  shadows  on  the  floor,  and  an  overwhelming 
tenderness  for  the  familiar  house  and  its  kind,  funny  ways 
swept  her.  At  the  moment  everything  in  her  whole  life,  its 
every  circumstance,  seemed  to  her  suffused  and  radiant  with 
the  warmest  loveliness.  She  played  on  and  on,  her  heart 
beating  high  with  happiness.  Perhaps  she  really  was  get 
ting  more  from  her  work  than  anyone  else  would  have  given 
her. 


THE  YELLOW  WALL-PAPER* 

BY  CHARLOTTE  PERKINS  STETSON  OILMAN 

IT  is  very  seldom  that  mere  ordinary  people  like  John 
and  myself  secure  ancestral  halls  for  the  summer. 
A  colonial  mansion,  a  hereditary  estate,  I  would  say 
a  haunted  house,  and  reach  the  height  of  romantic  felicity — 
but  that  would  be  asking  too  much  of  fate! 

Still  I  will  proudly  declare  that  there  is  something  queer 
about  it. 

Else,  why  should  it  be  let  so  cheaply?  And  why  have 
stood  so  long  untenanted  ? 

John  laughs  at  me,  of  course,  but  one  expects  that  in 

John  is  practical  in  the  extreme.  He  has  no  patience  with 
faith,  an  intense  horror  of  superstition,  and  he  scoffs  openly 
at  any  talk  of  things  not  to  be  felt  and  seen  and  put  down 
in  figures. 

John  is  a  physician,  and  perhaps — (I  would  not  say  it 
to  a  living  soul,  of  course,  but  this  is  dead  paper  and  a  great 
relief  to  my  mind) — perhaps  that  is  one  reason  I  do  not  get 
well  faster. 

You  see  he  does  not  believe  I  am  sick !  And  what  can  one 
do? 

If  a  physician  of  high  standing,  and  one's  own  husband, 
assures  friends  and  relatives  that  there  is  really  nothing  the 
matter  with  one  but  temporary  nervous  depression — a  slight 
hysterical  tendency — what  is  one  to  do? 

My  brother  is  also  a  physician,  and  also  of  high  standing, 
and  he  says  the  same  thing. 

So  I  take  phosphates  or  phosphites — whichever  it  is — and 
tonics,  and  journeys,  and  air,  and  exercise,  and  am  abso 
lutely  forbidden  to  "work"  until  I  am  well  again. 

Personally,  I  disagree  with  their  ideas. 

*By  permission  of  the  author. 

320 


THE  YELLOW  WALL-PAPER  321 

Personally,  I  believe  that  congenial  work,  with,  excite 
ment  and  change,  would  do  me  good. 

But  what  is  one  to  do? 

I  did  write  for  a  while  in  spite  of  them;  but  it  does 
exhaust  me  a  good  deal — having  to  be  so  sly  about  it,  or 
else  meet  with  heavy  opposition. 

I  sometimes  fancy  that  in  my  condition  if  I  had  less  op 
position  and  more  society  and  stimulus — but  John  says  the 
very  worst  thing  I  can  do  is  to  think  about  my  condition,  and 
I  confess  it  always  makes  me  feel  bad. 

So  I  will  let  it  alone  and  talk  about  the  house. 

The  most  beautiful  place!  It  is  quite  alone,  rtanding 
well  back  from  the  road,  quite  three  miles  from  the  village. 
It  makes  me  think  of  English  places  that  you  read  about,  for 
there  are  hedges  and  walls  and  gates  that  lock,  and  lots  of 
separate  little  houses  for  the  gardeners  and  people. 

There  is  a  delicious  garden!  I  never  saw  such  a  garden 
= — large  and  shady,  full  of  box-bordered  paths,  and  lined 
with  long  grape-covered  arbors  with  seats  under  them. 

There  were  greenhouses,  too,  but  they  are  all  broken  now. 

There  was  some  legal  trouble,  I  believe,  something  about 
the  heirs  and  co-heirs;  anyhow,  the  place  has  been  empty 
for  years. 

That  spoils  my  ghostliness,  I  am  afraid,  but  I  don't  care 
~-there  is  something  strange  about  the  house — I  can  feel 
it. 

I  even  said  so  to  John  one  moonlight  evening,  but  he  said 
what  I  felt  was  a  draught,  and  shut  the  window,, 

I  get  unreasonably  angry  with  John  sometimes.  I'm  sure 
I  never  used  to  be  so  sensitive.  I  think  it  is  due  to  this 
nervous  condition. 

But  John  says  if  I  feel  so  I  shall  neglect  proper  self- 
control;  so  I  take  pains  to  control  myself — before  him,  at 
least,  and  that  makes  me  very  tired. 

I  don't  like  our  room  a  bit.  I  wanted  one  downstairs  that 
opened  on  the  piazza  and  had  roses  all  over  the  window,  and 
such  pretty  old-fashioned  chintz  hangings !  But  John  would 
not  hear  of  it. 

He  said  there  was  only  one  window  and  not  room  for  two 
beds,  and  no  near  room  for  him  if  he  took  another. 


322    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

He  is  very  careful  and  loving,  and  hardly  lets  me  stir  with 
out  special  direction. 

I  have  a  schedule  prescription  for  each  hour  in  the  day; 
he  takes  all  care  from  me,  and  so  I  feel  basely  ungrateful 
not  to  value  it  more. 

He  said  we  came  here  solely  on  my  account,  that  I  was  to 
have  perfect  rest  and  all  the  air  I  could  get.  "Your  ex 
ercise  depends  on  your  strength,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "and 
your  food  somewhat  on  your  appetite;  but  air  you  can  ab 
sorb  all  the  time."  So  we  took  the  nursery  at  the  top  of 
the  house. 

It  is  a  big,  airy  room,  the  whole  floor  nearly,  with  win 
dows  that  look  all  ways,  and  air  and  sunshine  galore.  It 
was  nursery  first  and  then  playroom  and  gymnasium,  I 
should  judge ;  for  the  windows  are  barred  for  little  children, 
and  there  are  rings  and  things  in  the  walls. 

The  paint  and  paper  look  as  if  a  boys'  school  had  used  it. 
It  is  stripped  off — the  paper — in  great  patches  all  around 
the  head  of  my  bed,  about  as  far  as  I  can  reach,  and  in  a 
great  place  on  the  other  side  of  the  room  low  down.  I  never 
saw  a  worse  paper  in  my  life. 

One  of  those  sprawling  flamboyant  patterns  committing 
every  artistic  sin. 

It  is  dull  enough  to  confuse  the  eye  in  following,  pro 
nounced  enough  constantly  to  irritate  and  provoke  study,  and 
when  you  follow  the  lame  uncertain  curves  for  a  little  dis 
tance  they  suddenly  commit  suicide — plunge  off  at  outrage 
ous  angles,  destroy  themselves  in  unheard  of  contradictions. 

The  color  is  repellant,  almost  revolting;  a  smouldering 
unclean  yellow,  strangely  faded  by  the  slow-turning  sun 
light.  ^ 

It  is  a  dull  yet  lurid  orange  in  some  places,  a  sickly  sul 
phur  tint  in  others. 

No  wonder  the  children  hated  it!  I  should  hate  it  my 
self  if  I  had  to  live  in  this  room  long. 

There  comes  John,  and  I  must  put  this  away — he  hates  to 
have  me  write  a  word. 


THE  YELLOW  WALL-PAPER  323 

We  have  been  here  two  weeks,  and  I  haven't  felt  like  writ 
ing  before,  since  that  first  day. 

I  am  sitting  by  the  window  now,  up  in  this  atrocious 
nursery,  and  there  is  nothing  to  hinder  my  writing  as  much 
as  I  please,  save  lack  of  strength. 

John  is  away  all  day,  and  even  some  nights  when  his  cases 
are  serious. 

I  am  glad  my  case  is  noj  serious! 

But  these  nervous  troubles  are  dreadfully  depressing. 

John  does  not  know  how  much  I  really  suffer.  He  knows 
there  is  no  reason  to  suffer,  and  that  satisfies  him. 

Of  course  it  is  only  nervousness.  It  does  weigh  on  me 
so  not  to  do  my  duty  in  any  way ! 

I  meant  to  be  such  a  help  to  John,  such  a  real  rest  and 
comfort,  and  here  I  am  a  comparative  burden  already! 

Nobody  would  believe  what  an  effort  it  is  to  do  what  little 
I  am  able — to  dress  and  entertain,  and  order  things. 

It  is  fortunate  Mary  is  so  good  with  the  baby.  Such  a 
dear  baby! 

And  yet  I  cannot  be  with  him,  it  makes  me  so  nervous. 

I  suppose  John  never  was  nervous  in  his  life.  He  laughs 
at  me  so  about  this  wall-paper ! 

At  first  he  meant  to  repaper  the  room,  but  afterwards  he 
said  that  I  was  letting  it  get  the  better  of  me,  and  that 
nothing  was  worse  for  a  nervous  patient  that  to  give  way 
to  such  fancies. 

He  said  that  after  the  wall-paper  was  changed  it  would  be 
the  heavy  bedstead,  and  then  the  barred  windows,  and  then 
that  gate  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  so  on. 

"You  know  the  place  is  doing  you  good,"  he  said,  "and 
really,  dear,  I  don't  care  to  renovate  the  house  just  for  a 
three  months'  rental." 

"Then  do  let  us  go  downstairs,"  I  said,  "there  are  such 
pretty  rooms  there." 

Then  he  took  me  in  his  arms  and  called  me  a  blessed  little 
goose,  and  said  he  would  go  down  cellar,  if  I  wished,  and 
have  it  whitewashed  into  the  bargain. 

But  he  is  right  enough  about  the  beds  and  windows  and 
things. 


324   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES. 

It  is  an  airy  and  comfortable  room  as  any  one  need  wish, 
and,  of  course,  I  would  not  be  so  silly  as  to  make  him  un 
comfortable  just  for  a  whim. 

I'm  really  getting  quite  fond  of  the  big  room,  all  but  that 
Jhorrid  paper. 

Out  of  one  window  I  can  see  the  garden,  those  mysterious 
deep-shaded  arbors,  the  riotous  old-fashioned  flowers,  and 
bushes  and  gnarly  trees. 

Out  of  another  I  get  a  lovely  view  of  the  bay  and  a 
little  private  wharf  belonging  to  the  estate.  There  is  a 
beautiful  shaded  lane  that  runs  down  there  from  the  house. 
I  always  fancy  I  see  people  walking  in  these  numerous  paths 
and  arbors,  but  John  has  cautioned  me  not  to  give  way  to 
fancy  in  the  least.  He  says  that  with  my  imaginative  power 
and  habit  of  story-making,  a  nervous  weakness  like  mine  is 
sure  to  lead  to  all  manner  of  excited  fancies,  and  that  I 
ought  to  use  my  will  and  good  sense  to  check  the  tendency. 
So  I  try. 

I  think  sometimes  that  if  I  were  only  well  enough  to  write 
a  little  it  would  relieve  the  press  of  ideas  and  rest  me. 

But  I  find  I  get  pretty  tired  when  I  try. 

It  is  so  discouraging  not  to  have  any  advice  and  compan 
ionship  about  my  work.  When  I  get  really  well,  John  says 
we  will  ask  Cousin  Henry  and  Julia  down  for  a  long  visit; 
but  he  says  he  would  as  soon  put  fireworks  in  my  pillow 
case  as  to  let  me  have  those  stimulating  people  about  now. 

I  wish  I  could  get  well  faster. 

But  I  must  not  think  about  that.  This  paper  looks  to  me 
as  if  it  knew  what  a  vicious  influence  it  had ! 

There  is  a  recurrent  spot  where  the  pattern  lolls  like  a 
broken  neck  and  two  bulbous  eyes  stare  at  you  upside  down. 

I  get  positively  angry  with  the  impertinence  of  it  and  the 
everlastingness.  Up  and  down  and  sideways  they  crawl,  and 
those  absurd,  unblinking  eyes  are  everywhere.  There  is  one 
place  where  two  breadths  didn't  match,  and  the  eyes  go  all 
up  and  down  the  line,  one  a  little  higher  than  the  other. 

I  never  saw  so  much  expression  in  an  inanimate  thing  be 
fore,  and  we  all  know  how  much  expression  they  have!  I 
used  to  lie  awake  as  a  child  and  get  more  entertainment  and 


THE  YELLOW  WALL-PAPER  325 

terror  out  of  blank  walls  and  plain  furniture  than  most  chil 
dren  could  find  in  a  toy-store. 

I  remember  what  a  kindly  wink  the  knobs  of  our  big,  old 
bureau  used  to  have,  and  there  was  one  chair  that  always 
seemed  like  a  strong  friend. 

I  used  to  feel  that  if  any  of  the  other  things  looked  too 
fierce  I  could  always  hop  into  that  chair  and  be  safe. 

The  furniture  in  this  room  is  no  worse  than  inharmonious, 
however,  for  we  had  to  bring  it  all  from  downstairs.  I 
suppose  when  this  was  used  as  a  playroom  they  had  to  take 
the  nursery  things  out,  and  no  wonder!  I  never  saw  such 
ravages  as  the  children  have  made  here. 

The  wall-paper,  as  I  said  before,  is  torn  off  in  spots,  and 
it  sticketh  closer  than  a  brother — they  must  have  had  per 
severance  as  well  as  hatred. 

Then  the  floor  is  scratched  and  gouged  and  splintered,  the 
plaster  itself  is  dug  out  here  and  there,  and  this  great  heavy 
bed  which  is  all  we  found  in  the  room,  looks  as  if  it  had 
been  through  the  wars. 

But  I  don't  mind  it  a  bit—only  the  paper. 

There  comes  John's  sister.  Such  a  dear  girl  as  she  is,  and 
so  careful  of  me !  ~I  Inust  not  let  her  find  me  writing. 

She  is  a  perfect  and  enthusiastic  housekeeper,  and  hopes 
for  no  better  profession.  I  verily  believe  she  thinks  it  is  the 
writing  which  made  me  sick! 

But  I  can  write  when  she  is  out,  and  see  her  a  long  way  off 
from  these  windows. 

There  is  one  that  commands  the  road,  a  lovely  shaded 
winding  road,  and  one  that  just  looks  off  over  the  country. 
A  lovely  country,  too,  full  of  great  elms  and  velvet  meadows. 

This  wall-paper  has  a  kind  of  sub-pattern  in  a  different 
shade,  a  particularly  irritating  one,  for  you  can  only  see  it 
in  certain  lights,  and  not  clearly  then. 

But  in  the  places  where  it  isn't  faded  and  where  the  sun 
is  just  so — I  can  see  a  strange,  provoking,  formless  sort  of 
figure,  that  seems  to  skulk  about  behind  that  silly  and  con 
spicuous  front  design. 

There's  sister  on  the  stairs ! 


326   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

Well,  the  Fourth  of  July  is  over !  The  people  are  all  gone 
and  I  am  tired  out.  John  thought  it  might  do  me  good  to 
see  a  little  company,  so  we  just  had  mother  and  Nellie  and 
the  children  down  for  a  week. 

Of  course  I  didn't  do  a  thing.  Jennie  sees  to  everything 
now. 

But  it  tired  me  all  the  same. 

John  says  if  I  don't  pick  up  faster  he  shall  send  me  to 
Weir  Mitchell  in  the  fall. 

But  I  don't  want  to  go  there  at  all.  I  had  a  friend  who 
was  in  his  hands  once,  and  she  says  he  is  just  like  John  and 
my  brother,  only  more  so ! 

Besides,  it  is  such  an  undertaking  to  go  so  far. 

I  don't  feel  as  if  it  was  worth  while  to  turn  my  hand 
over  for  anything,  and  I'm  getting  dreadfully  fretful  and 
querulous. 

I  cry  at  nothing,  and  cry  most  of  the  time. 

Of  course  I  don't  when  John  is  here,  or  anybody  else,  but 
when  I  am  alone. 

And  I  am  alone  a  good  deal  just  now.  John  is  kept  in 
town  very  often  by  serious  cases,  and  Jennie  is  good  and 
lets  me  alone  when  I  want  her  to. 

So  I  walk  a  little  in  the  garden  or  down  that  lovely  lane, 
sit  on  the  porch  under  the  roses,  and  lie  down  up  here  a  good 
deal. 

I'm  getting  really  fond  of  the  room  in  spite  of  the  wall 
paper.  Perhaps  because  of  the  wallpaper. 

It  dwells  in  my  mind  so ! 

I  lie  here  on  this  great  immovable  bed — it  is  nailed  down, 
I  believe — and  follow  that  pattern  about  by  the  hour.  It  is 
as  good  as  gymnastics,  I  assure  you.  I  start,  we'll  say,  at 
the  bottom,  down  in  the  corner  over  there  where  it  has  not 
been  touched,  and  I  determine  for  the  thousandth  time  that 
I  will  follow  that  pointless  pattern  to  some  sort  of  a  con 
clusion. 

I  know  a  little  of  the  principle  of  design,  and  I  know  this 
thing  was  not  arranged  on  any  laws  of  radiation,  or  alterna 
tion,  or  repetition,  or  symmetry,  or  anything  else  that  I  evet 
heard  of. 


THE  YELLOW  WALL-PAPER  327 

It  is  repeated,  of  course,  by  the  breadths,  but  not  other 
wise. 

Looked  at  in  one  way  each  breadth  stands  alone,  the 
bloated  curves  and  flourishes — a  kind  of  "debased  Roman 
esque"  with  delirium  tremens — go  waddling  up  and  down  in 
isolated  columns  of  fatuity. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  they  connect  diagonally,  and  the 
sprawling  outlines  run  off  in  great  slanting  waves  of  optic 
horror,  like  a  lot  of  wallowing  sea-weeds  in  full  chase. 

The  whole  thing  goes  horizontally,  too,  at  least  it  seems 
so,  and  I  exhaust  myself  trying  to  distinguish  the  order  of  its 
going  in  that  direction. 

They  have  used  a  horizontal  breadth  for  a  frieze,  and  that 
adds  wonderfully  to  the  confusion. 

There  is  one  end  of  the  room  where  it  is  almost  intact, 
and  there,  when  the  crosslights  fade  and  the  low  sun  shines 
directly  upon  it,  I  can  almost  fancy  radiation  after  all, — the 
interminable  grotesques  seem  to  form  around  a  common 
centre  and  rush  off  in  headlong  plunges  of  equal  distraction. 

It  makes  me  tired  to  follow  it.     I  will  take  a  nap  I  guess. 
*          #          *          *          *          *          #          * 

I  don't  know  why  I  should  write  this. 

I  don't  want  to. 

I  don't  feel  able. 

And  I  know  John  would  think  it  absurd.  But  I  must 
say  what  I  feel  and  think  in  some  way — it  is  such  a  relief! 

But  the  effort  is  getting  to  be  greater  than  the  relief. 

Half  the  time  now  I  am  awfully  lazy,  and  lie  down  ever 
so  much. 

John  says  I  mustn't  lose  my  strength,  and  has  me  take 
cod  liver  oil  and  lots  of  tonics  and  things,  to  say  nothing  of 
ale  and  wine  and  rare  meat. 

Dear  John!  He  loves  me  very  dearly,  and  hates  to  have 
me  sick.  I  tried  to  have  a  real  earnest  reasonable  talk  with 
him  the  other  day,  and  tell  him  how  I  wish  he  would  let  me 
go  and  make  a  visit  to  Cousin  Henry  and  Julia. 

But  he  said  I  wasn't  able  to  go,  nor  able  to  stand  it  after 
I  got  there;  and  I  did  not  make  out  a  very  good  case  for 
myself,  for  I  was  crying  before  I  had  finished. 


328   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

It  is  getting  to  be  a  great  effort  for  me  to  think  straight. 
Just  this  nervous  weakness  I  suppose. 

And  dear  John  gathered  me  up  in  his  arms,  and  just 
carried  me  upstairs  and  laid  me  on  the  bed,  and  sat  by  me 
and  read  to  me  till  it  tired  my  head. 

He  said  I  was  his  darling  and  his  comfort  and  all  he  had, 
and  that  I  must  take  care  of  myself  for  his  sake,  and  keep 
well. 

He  says  no  one  but  myself  can  help  me  out  of  it,  that  I 
must  use  my  will  and  self-control  and  not  let  any  silly  fancies 
run  away  with  me. 

There's  one  comfort,  the  baby  is  well  and  happy,  and  does 
not  have  to  occupy  this  nursery  with  the  horrid  wallpaper. 

If  we  had  not  used  it,  that  blessed  child  would  have! 
What  a  fortunate  escape !  Why,  I  wouldn't  have  a  child  of 
mine,  an  impressionable  little  thing,  live  in  such  a  room  for 
worlds. 

I  never  thought  of  it  before,  but  it  is  lucky  that  John  kept 
me  here  after  all,  I  can  stand  it  so  much  easier  than  a  baby, 
you  see. 

Of  course  I  never  mention  it  to  them  any  more — I  am  too 
wise — but  I  keep  watch  for  it  all  the  same. 

There  are  things  in  that  paper  that  nobody  knows  but  me, 
or  ever  will. 

Behind  that  outside  pattern  the  dim  shapes  get  clearer 
every  day. 

It  is  always  the  same  shape,  only  very  numerous. 

And  it  is  like  a  woman  stooping  down  and  creeping  about 
behind  that  pattern.  I  don't  like  it  a  bit.  I  wonder — I 

begin  to  think — I  wish  John  would  take  me  away  from  here ! 
#####*#* 

It  is  so  hard  to  talk  with  John  about  my  case,  because  he 
is  so  wise,  and  because  he  loves  me  so. 

But  I  tried  it  last  night. 

It  was  moonlight.  The  moon  shines  in  all  around  just  as 
the  sun  does. 

I  hate  to  see  it  sometimes,  it  creeps  so  slowly,  and  always 
comes  in  by  one  window  or  another. 

John  was  asleep  and  I  hated  to  waken  him,  so  I  kept  still 


THE  YELLOW  WALLPAPER  329 

and  watched  the  moonlight  on  that  undulating  wallpaper 
till  I  felt  creepy. 

The  faint  figure  behind  seemed  to  shake  the  pattern,  just 
as  if  she  wanted  to  get  out. 

I  got  up  softly  and  went  to  feel  and  see  if  the  paper  did 
move,  and  when  I  came  back  John  was  awake. 

"What  is  it,  little^girl?"  he  said.  "Don't  go  walking  about 
like  that— youlf  get  cold." 

I  thought  it  was  a  good  time  to  talk  so  I  told  him  that  I 
really  was  not  gaining  here,  and  that  I  wished  he  would 
take  me  away. 

"Why  darling!"  said  he,  "our  lease  will  be  up  in  three 
weeks,  and  I  can't  see  how  to  leave  before. 

"The  repairs  are  not  done  at  home,  and  I  cannot  possibly 
leave  town  just  now.  Of  course  if  you  were  in  any  danger, 
I  could  and  would,  but  you  really  are  better,  dear,  whether 
you  can  see  it  or  not.  I  am  a  doctor,  dear,  and  I  know. 
You  are  gaining  flesh  and  color,  your  appetite  is  better,  I 
feel  really  much  easier  about  you." 

"I  don't  weigh  a  bit  more,"  said  I,  "nor  as  much;  and  my 
appetite  may  be  better  in  the  evening  when  you  are  here,  but 
it  is  worse  in  the  morning  when  you  are  away!" 

"Bless  her  little  heart!"  said  he  with  a  big  hug,  "she  shall 
be  as  sick  as  she  pleases!  But  now  let's  improve  the  shin 
ing  hours  by  going  to  sleep,  and  talk  about  it  in  the  morn 
ing!" 

"And  you  won't  go  away?"  I  asked  gloomily. 

"Why,  how  can  I,  dear?  It  is  only  three  weeks  more  and 
then  we  will  take  a  nice  little  trip  of  a  few  days  while 
Jennie  is  getting  the  house  ready.  Really,  dear,  you  are 
better!" 

"Better  in  body  perhaps — "  I  began,  and  stopped  short, 
for  he  sat  up  straight  and  looked  at  me  with  such  a  stern, 
reproachful  look  that  I  could  not  say  another  word. 

"My  darling,"  said  he,  "I  beg  of  you,  for  my  sake  and 
for  our  child's  sake,  as  well  as  for  your  own,  that  you  will 
never  for  one  instant  let  that  idea  enter  your  mind!  There 
is  nothing  so  dangerous,  so  fascinating,  to  a  temperament  like 


330   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

yours.     It  is  a  false  and  foolish  fancy.     Can  you  not  trust 
me  as  a  physician  when  I  tell  you  so?" 

So  of  course  I  said  no  more  on  that  score,  and  we  went  to 
sleep  before  long.  He  thought  I  was  asleep  first,  but  I 
wasn't,  and  lay  there  for  hours  trying  to  decide  whether  that 
front  pattern  and  the  back  pattern  really  did  move  together  or 
separately. 

******** 

On  a  pattern  like  this,  by  daylight,  there  is  a  lack  of  se 
quence,  a  defiance  of  law,  that  is  a  constant  irritant  to  a 
normal  mind. 

The  color  is  hideous  enough,  and  unreliable  enough,  and 
infuriating  enough,  but  the  pattern  is  torturing. 

You  think  you  have  mastered  it,  but  just  as  you  get  well 
underway* in  following,  it  turns  a  back-somersault  and  there 
you  are.  It  slaps  you  in  the  face,  knocks  you  down,  and 
tramples  upon  you.  It  is  like  a  bad  dream. 

The  outside  pattern  is  a  florid  arabesque,  reminding  one 
of  a  fungus.  If  you  can  imagine  a  toadstool  in  joints,  an 
interminable  string  of  toadstools,  budding  and  sprouting  in 
endless  convolutions —  why,  that  is  something  like  it. 

That  is,  sometimes ! 

There  is  one  marked  peculiarity  about  this  paper,  a  thing 
nobody  seems  to  notice  but  myself,  and  that  is  that  it  changes 
as  the  light  changes. 

When  the  sun  shoots  in  through  the  east  window — I  always 
watch  for  that  first,  long,  straight  ray — it  changes  so  quickly 
that  I  never  can  quite  believe  it. 

That  is  why  I  watch  it  always. 

By  moonlight — the  moon  shines  in  all  night  when  there  is 
a  moon — I  wouldn't  know  it  was  the  same  paper. 

At  night  in  any  kind  of  light,  in  twilight,  candlelight, 
lamplight,  and  worst  of  all  by  moonlight,  it  becomes  bars! 
The  outside  pattern  I  mean,  and  the  woman  behind  it  is  as 
plain  as  can  be. 

I  didn't  realize  for  a  long  time  what  the  thing  was  that 
showed  behind,  that  dim  sub-pattern,  but  now  I  am  quite 
sure  it  is  a  woman. 

By  daylight  she  is  subdued,  quiet.     I  fancy  it  is  the  pat- 


THE  YELLOW  WALL-PAPER  331 

tern  that  keeps  her  so  still.     It  is  so  puzzling.     It  keeps  me 
quiet  by  the  hour. 

I  lie  down  ever  so  much  now.  John  says  it  is  good  for 
me,  and  to  sleep  all  I  can. 

Indeed  he  started  the  habit  by  making  me  lie  down  for  an 
hour  after  each  meal.  • 

It  is  a  very  bad  habit  I  am  convinced,  for  you  see  I  don't 
sleep. 

And  that  cultivates  deceit,  for  I  don't  tell  them  I'm  awake 
— O,  no! 

The  fact  is  I  am  getting  a  little  afraid  of  John. 

He  seems  very  queer  sometimes,  and  even  Jennie  has  an 
inexplicable  look. 

It  strikes  me  occasionally,  just  as  a  scientific  hypothesis, 
that  perhaps  it  is  the  paper! 

I  have  watched  John  when  he  did  not  know  I  was  look 
ing,  and  come  into  the  room  suddenly  on  the  most  innocent 
excuses,  and  I've  caught  him  several  times  looking  at  the 
paper!  And  Jennie  too.  I  caught  Jennie  with  her  hand  on 
it  once. 

She  didn't  know  I  was  in  the  room,  and  when  I  asked  her 
in  a  quiet,  a  very  quiet  voice,  with  the  most  restrained 
manner  possible,  what  she  was  doing  with  the  paper — she 
turned  around  as  if  she  had  been  caught  stealing,  and  looked 
quite  angry — asked  me  why  I  should  frighten  her  so ! 

Then  she  said  that  the  paper  stained  everything  it  touched, 
that  she  had  found  yellow  smooches  on  all  my  clothes  and 
John's,  and  she  wished  we  would  be  more  careful! 

Did  not  that  sound  innocent?  But  I  know  she  was 
studying  that  pattern,  and  I  am  determined  that  nobody 
shall  find  it  out  but  myself! 

******** 

Life  is  very  much  more  exciting  now  than  it  used  to  be. 
You  see  I  have  something  more  to  expect,  to  look  forward 
to,  to  watch.  I  really  do  eat  better,  and  am  more  quiet  than 
I  was. 

John  is  so  pleased  to  see  me  improve !  He  laughed  a  little 
the  other  day,  and  said  I  seemed  to  be  flourishing  in  spite  of 
my  wallpaper. 


332    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

I  turned  it  off  with  a  laugh.  I  had  no  intention  of  telling 
him  it  was  because  of  the  wallpaper — he  would  make  fun  of 
me.  He  might  even  want  to  take  me  away. 

I  don't  want  to  leave  now  until  I  have  found  it  out. 
There  is  a  week  more,  and  I  think  that  will  be  enough. 
******** 

I'm  feeling  ever  so  much  better!  I  don't  sleep  much  at 
night,  for  it  is  so  interesting  to  watch  developments;  but  I 
sleep  a  good  deal  in  the  daytime. 

In  the  daytime  it  is  tiresome  and  perplexing. 

There  are  always  new  shoots  on  the  fungus,  and  new 
shades  of  yellow  all  over  it.  I  cannot  keep  count  of  them, 
though  I  have  tried  conscientiously. 

It  is  the  strangest  yellow,  that  wallpaper!  It  makes  me 
think  of  all  the  yellow  things  I  ever  saw — not  beautiful  ones 
like  buttercups,  but  old  foul,  bad  yellow  things. 

But  there  is  something  else  about  that  paper — the  smell! 
I  noticed  it  the  moment  we  came  into  the  room,  but  with 
so  much  air  and  sun  it  was  not  bad.  Now  we  have  had  a 
week  of  fog  and  rain,  and  whether  the  windows  are  open  or 
not,  the  smell  is  here. 

It  creeps  all  over  the  house. 

I  find  it  hovering  in  the  dining-room,  skulking  in  the 
parlor,  hiding  in  the  hall,  lying  in  wait  for  me  on  the  stairs. 

It  gets  into  my  hair. 

Even  when  I  go  to  ride,  if  I  turn  my  head  suddenly  and 
surprise  it — there  is  that  smell  1 

Such  a  peculiar  odor,  too !  I  have  spent  hours  in  trying  to 
analyze  it,  to  find  what  it  smelled  like. 

It  is  not  bad — at  first,  and  very  gentle,  but  quite  the 
subtlest,  most  enduring  odor  I  ever  met. 

In  this  damp  weather  it  is  awful,  I  wake  up  in  the  night 
and  find  it  hanging  over  me. 

It  used  to  disturb  me  at  first.  I  thought  seriously  of  burn 
ing  the  house — to  reach  the  smell. 

But  now  I  am  used  to  it.  The  only  thing  I  can  think  of 
that  it  is  like  is  the  color  of  the  paper !  A  yellow  smell. 

There  is  a  very  funny  mark  on  this  wall,  low  down,  near 
the  mopboard.  A  streak  that  runs  round  the  room.  It 


THE  YELLOW  WALL-PAPER  333 

goes  behind  every  piece  of  furniture,  except  the  bed,  a  long, 
straight,  even  smooch,  as  if  it  had  been  rubbed  over  and 
over. 

I  wonder  how  it  was  done  and  who  did  it,  and  what  they 
did  it  for.  Round  and  round  and  round — round  and  round 
and  round — it  makes  me  dizzy ! 

*          *          *          *    '      *          *          *          * 

I  really  have  discovered  something  at  last. 

Through  watching  so  much  at  night,  when  it  changes  so, 
I  have  finally  found  out. 

The  front  pattern  does  move — and  no  wonder!  The 
woman  behind  shakes  it! 

Sometimes  I  think  there  are  a  great  many  women  behind, 
and  sometimes  only  one,  and  she  crawls  around  fast,  and  her 
crawling  shakes  it  all  over. 

Then  in  the  very  bright  spots  she  keeps  still,  and  in  the 
very  shady  spots  she  just  takes  hold  of  the  bars  and  shakes 
them  hard. 

And  she  is  all  the  time  trying  to  climb  through.  But  no 
body  could  climb  through  that  pattern: — it  strangles  so;  I 
think  that  is  why  it  has  so  many  heads.^> 

They  get  through,  and  then  the  pattern  strangles  them 
off  and  turns  them  upside  down,  and  makes  their  eyes  white ! 

If  those  heads  were  covered  or  taken  off  it  would  not  be 

half  so  bad. 

******** 

I  think  that  woman  gets  out  in  the  daytime! 

And  I'll  tell  you  why — privately — I've  seen  her! 

I  can  see  her  out  of  every  one  of  my  windows ! 

It  is  the  same  woman,  I  know,  for  she  is  always  creeping, 
and  most  women  do  not  creep  by  daylight. 

I  see  her  in  that  long  shaded  lane,  creeping  up  and  down. 
I  see  her  in  those  dark  grape  arbors,  creeping  all  around  the 
garden. 

I  see  her  on  that  long  road  under  the  trees,  creeping  along, 
and  when  a  carriage  comes  she  hides  under  the  blackberry 
vines, 

I  don'  blame  her  a  bit.  It  must  be  very  humiliating  to  be 
caught  creeping  by  daylight ! 


334    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

I  always  lock  the  door  when  I  creep  by  daylight.  I  can't 
do  it  at  night,  for  I  know  John  would  suspect  something 
at  once. 

And  John  is  so  queer  now,  that  I  don't  want  to  irritate 
him.  I  wish  he  would  take  another  room!  Besides,  I  don't 
want  anybody  to  get  that  woman  out  at  night  but  myself. 

I  often  wonder  if  I  could  see  her  out  of  all  the  windows 
at  once. 

But,  turn  as  fast  as  I  can,  I  can  only  see  out  of  one  at 
one  time. 

And  though  I  always  see  her,  she  may  be  able  to  creep 
faster  than  I  can  turn ! 

I  have  watched  her  sometimes  away  off  in  the  open  country, 
creeping  as  fast  as  a  cloud  shadow  in  a  high  wind. 

******** 

If  only  that  top  pattern  could  be  gotten  off  from  the  under 
one!  I  mean  to  try  it,  little  by  little. 

I  have  found  out  another  funny  thing,  but  I  shan't  tell 
it  this  time!  It  does  not  do  to  trust  people  too  much. 

There  are  only  two  more  days  to  get  this  paper  off,  and  I 
believe  John  is  beginning  to  notice.  I  don't  like  the  look  in 
his  eyes. 

And  I  heard  him  ask  Jennie  a  lot  of  professional  ques 
tions  about  me.  She  had  a  very  good  report  to  give. 

She  said  I  slept  a  good  deal  in  the  daytime. 

John  knows  I  don't  sleep  very  well  at  night,  for  all  I'm  so 
quiet ! 

He  asked  me  all  sorts  of  questions,  too,  and  pretended  to 
be  very  loving  and  kind. 

As  if  I  couldn't  see  through  him ! 

Still,  I  don't  wonder  he  acts  so,  sleeping  under  this  paper 
for  three  months. 

It  only  interests  me,  but  I  feel  sure  John  and  Jennie  are 

secretly  affected  by  it. 

******** 

Hurrah!  This  is  the  last  day,  but  it  is  enough.  John  to 
stay  in  town  over  night,  and  won't  be  out  until  this  evening. 

Jennie  wanted  to  sleep  with  me — the  sly  thing!  but  I  told 
her  I  should  undoubtedly  rest  better  for  a  night  all  alone. 


THE  YELLOW  WALL-PAPER  335 

That  was  clever,  for  really  I  wasn't  alone  a  bit !  As 
soon  as  it  was  moonlight  and  that  poor  thing  began  to  crawl 
and  shake  the  pattern,  I  got  up  and  ran  to  help  her. 

I  pulled  and  she  shook,  I  shook  and  she  pulled,  and  before 
morning  we  had  peeled  off  yards  of  that  paper. 

A  strip  about  as  high  as  my  head  and  half  around  the 
room. 

And  then  when  the  sun  came  and  that  awful  pattern  be 
gan  to  laugh  at  me,  I  declared  I  would  finish  it  to-day  1 

We  go  away  to-morrow,  and  they  are  moving  all  my  furni 
ture  down  again  to  leave  things  as  they  were  before. 

Jennie  looked  at  the  wall  in  amazement,  but  I  told  her 
merrily  that  I  did  it  out  of  pure  spite  at  the  vicious  thing. 

She  laughed  and  said  she  wouldn't  mind  doing  it  herself, 
but  I  must  not  get  tired. 

How  she  betrayed  herself  that  time ! 

But  I  am  here,  and  no  person  touches  this  paper  but  Me — 
not  alive! 

She  tried  to  get  me  out  of  the  room —  it  was  too  patent! 
But  I  said  it  was  so  quiet  and  empty  and  clean  now  that  I 
believed  I  would  lie  down  again  and  sleep  all  I  could;  and 
not  to  wake  me  even  for  dinner — I  would  call  when  I 
woke. 

So  now  she  is  gone,  and  the  servants  are  gone,  and  the 
things  are  gone,  and  there  is  nothing  left  but  that  great  bed 
stead  nailed  down,  with  the  canvas  mattress  we  found  on  it. 

We  shall  sleep  downstairs  to-night,  and  take  the  boat  home 
to-morrow. 

I  quite  enjoy  the  room,  now  it  is  bare  again. 

How  those  children  did  tear  about  here ! 

This  bedstead  is  fairly  gnawed ! 

But  I  must  get  to  work. 

I  have  locked  the  door  and  thrown  the  key  down  into  the 
front  path. 

I  don't  want  to  go  out  ,and  I  don't  want  to  have  anybody 
come  in,  till  John  comes. 

I  want  to  astonish  him. 

I've  got  a  rope  up  here  that  even  Jennis  did  not  find.    If 


336    THE  GREAT  MODERN^  AMERICAN  STORIES 

that  woman  does  get  out,  and  tries  to  get  away,  I  can  tie 
her! 

But  I  forgot  I  could  not  reach  far  without  anything  to 
stand  on! 

This  bed  will  not  move ! 

I  tried  to  lift  and  push  it  until  I  was  lame,  and  then  I 
got  so  angry  I  bit  off  a  little  piece  at  one  corner — but  it 
hurt  my  teeth. 

Then  I  peeled  off  all  the  paper  I  could  reach  standing  on 
the  floor.  It  sticks  horribly  and  the  pattern  just  enjoys  it! 
All  those  strangled  heads  and  bulbous  eyes  and  waddling 
fungus  growths  just  shriek  with  derision! 

I  am  getting  angry  enough  to  do  something  desperate.  To 
jump  out  of  the  window  would  be  admirable  exercise,  but 
the  bars  are  too  strong  even  to  try. 

Besides  I  wouldn't  do  it.  Of  course  not.  I  know  well 
enough  that  a  step  like  that  is  improper  and  might  be  mis 
construed. 

I  don't  like  to  look  out  of  the  windows  even — there  are 
so  many  of  those  creeping  women,  and  they  creep  so  fast. 

I  wonder  if  they  all  come  out  of  that  wallpaper  as  I  did? 

But  I  am  securely  fastened  now  by  my  well-hidden  rope — 
you  don't  get  me  out  in  the  road  there ! 

I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  get  back  behind  the  pattern  when 
it  comes  night,  and  that  is  hard! 

It  is  so  pleasant  to  be  out  in  this  great  room  and  creep 
around  as  I  pleasej 

I  don't  want  to  go  outside.  I  won't,  even  if  Jennie  asks 
me  to. 

For  outside  you  have  to  creep  on  the  ground,  and  every 
thing  is  green  instead  of  yellow. 

But  here  I  can  creep  smoothly  on  the  floor,  and  my 
shoulder  just  fits  in  that  long  smooch  around  the  wall,  so 
I  cannot  lose  my  way. 

Why  there's  John  at  the  door! 

It  is  no  use,  young  man,  you  can't  open  it! 

How  he  does  call  and  pound! 

Now  he's  crying  for  an  axe. 

Jt  would  be  a  shame  to  break  down  that  beautiful  door ! 


THE  YELLOW  WALL-PAPER  337 

"John  dear!"  said  I  in  the  gentlest  voice,  "the  key  is  down 
by  the  front  steps,  under  a  plantain  leaf!" 

That  silenced  him  for  a  few  moments. 

Then  he  said,  very  quietly  indeed,  "Open  the  door,  my 
darling!" 

"I  can't,"  said  I.  "The  key  is  down  by  the  front  door 
under  a  plantain  leaf!" 

And  then  I  said  it  again,  several  times,  very  gently  and 
slowly,  and  said  it  so  often  that  he  had  to  go  and  see,  and  he 
got  it  of  course,  and  came  in.  He  stopped  short  by  the  door. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  cried.  "For  God's  sake,  what 
are  you  doing!" 

I  kept  on  creeping  just  the  same,  but  I  looked  at  him  over 
my  shoulder. 

"I've  got  out  at  last,"  said  I,  "in  spite  of  you  and  Jane. 
And  I've  pulled  off  most  of  the  paper,  so  you  can't  put  me 
back!" 

Now  why  should  that  man  have  fainted?  But  he  did,, 
and  right  across  my  path  by  the  wall,  so  that  I  had  to  creep 
over  him  every  time  I 


THE  LITTLE  ROOM  * 

BY  MADELENE  YALE  WYNNE 

66  TT  OW  would  it  do  for  a  smoking  room?" 

"Just  the  very  place!  Only,  you  know,  Roger, 
you  must  not  think  of  smoking  in  the  house.  I 
am  almost  afraid  that  having  just  a  plain,  common  man 
around,  let  alone  a  smoking  man,  will  upset  Aunt  Hannah. 
She  is  New  England — Vermont  New  England — boiled 
down." 

"You  leave  Aunt  Hannah  to  me;  I'll  find  her  tender  side. 
I'm  going  to  ask  her  about  the  old  sea-captain  and  the 
yellow  calico." 

"Not  yellow  calico — blue  chintz." 

"Well,  yellow  shell  then." 

"No,  no!  don't  mix  it  up  so;  you  won't  know  yourself  what 
to  expect,  and  that's  half  the  fun." 

"Now  you  tell  me  again  exactly  what  to  expect;  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  didn't  half  hear  about  it  the  other  day;  I  was  wool 
gathering.  It  was  something  queer  that  happened  when  you 
were  a  child,  wasn't  it?" 

"Something  that  began  to  happen  long  before  that,  and 
kept  happening,  and  may  happen  again — but  I  hope  not." 

"What  was  it?" 

"I  wonder  if  the  other  people  in  the  car  can  hear  us?" 

"I  fancy  not;  we  don't  hear  them — not  consecutively,  at 
least." 

"Well,  mother  was  born  in  Vermont,  you  know;  she  was 
the  only  child  by  a  second  marriage.  Aunt  Hannah  and 
Aunt  Maria  are  only  half-aunts  to  me,  you  know." 

"I  hope  they  are  half  as  nice  as  you  are." 

"Roger,  be  still — they  certainly  will  hear  us." 

*  By  special  arrangement. 

338 


THE  LITTLE  ROOM  339 

''Well,  don't  you  want  them  to  know  we  are  married?" 

"Yes,  but  not  just  married.  There's  all  the  difference  in 
the  world." 

"You  are  afraid  we  look  too  happy!" 

"No,  only  I  want  my  happiness  all  to  myself." 

"Well,  the  little  room?" 

"My  aunts  brought  mother  up;  they  were  nearly  twenty 
years  older  than  she.  I  might  say  Hiram  and  they  brought 
her  up.  You  see,  Hiram  was  bound  out  to  my  grandfather 
when  he  was  a  boy,  and  when  grandfather  died  Hiram  said 
he  Vposed  he  went  with  the  farm,  'long  o'  the  critters,'  and 
he  has  been  there  ever  since.  He  was  my  mother's  only 
refuge  from  the  decorum  of  my  aunts.  They  are  simply 
workers.  They  make  me  think  of  the  Maine  woman  who 
wanted  her  epitaph  to  be:  'She  was  a  hard  working 
woman.' " 

"They  must  be  almost  beyond  their  working-days.  How 
old  are  they?" 

"Seventy,  or  thereabouts;  but  they  will  die  standing;  or,  at 
least,  on  a  Saturday  night,  after  all  the  house-work  is  done  up. 
They  were  rather  strict  with  mother,  and  I  think  she  had 
a  lonely  childhood.  The  house  is  almost  a  mile  away  from 
any  neighbors,  and  off  on  top  of  what  they  call  Stony  Hill. 
It  is  bleak  enough  up  there,  even  in  summer." 

"When  mamma  was  about  ten  years  old  they  sent  her  to 
cousins  in  Brooklyn,  who  had  children  of  their  own,  and 
knew  more  about  bringing  them  up.  She  stayed  there  till 
she  was  married;  she  didn't  go  to  Vermont  in  all  that  time, 
and  of  course  hadn't  seen  her  sisters,  for  they  never  would 
leave  home  for  a  day.  They  couldn't  even  be  induced  to  go 
to  Brooklyn  for  her  wedding,  so  she  and  father  took  their 
wedding  trip  up  there." 

"And  that's  why  we  are  going  up  there  on  our  own?" 

"Don't,  Roger;  you  have  no  idea  how  loud  you  speak." 

"You  never  say  so  except  when  I  am  going  to  say  that  one 
little  word." 

"Well,  don't  say  it,  then,  or  say  it  very,  very  quietly." 

"Well,  what  was  the  queer  thing?" 

"When   they  got   to  the  house,   mother  wanted  to  take 


340   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

father  right  off  into  the  little  room;  she  had  been  telling 
him  about  it,  just  as  I  am  going  to  tell  you,  and  she  had  said 
that  of  all  the  rooms,  that  one  was  the  only  one  that  seemed 
pleasant  to  her.  She  described  the  furniture  and  the  books 
and  paper  and  everything,  and  said  it  was  on  the  north 
side,  between  the  front  and  back  room.  Well,  when  they 
went  to  look  for  it,  there  was  no  little  room  there;  there  was 
only  a  shallow  china-closet.  She  asked  her  sisters  when  the 
house  had  been  altered  and  a  closet  made  of  the  room  that 
used  to  be  there.  They  both  said  the  house  was  exactly  as 
it  had  been  built — that  they  had  never  made  any  changes, 
except  to  tear  down  the  old  wood-shed  and  build  a  smaller 
one. 

"Father  and  mother  laughed  a  good  deal  over  it,  and 
when  anything  was  lost  they  would  always  say  it  must  be  in 
the  little  room,  and  any  exaggerated  statement  was  called 
'little-roomy/  When  I  was  a  child  I  thought  that  was  a 
regular  English  phrase,  I  heard  it  so  often. 

"Well,  they  talked  it  over,  and  finally  they  concluded  that 
my  mother  had  been  a  very  imaginative  sort  of  a  child,  and 
had  read  in  some  book  about  such  a  little  room,  or  perhaps 
even  dreamed  it,  and  then  had  'made  believe,'  as  children  do, 
till  she  herself  had  really  thought  the  room  was  there." 

"Why,  of  course,  that  might  easily  happen." 

"Yes,  but  you  haven't  heard  the  queer  part  yet;  you  wait 
and  see  if  you  can  explain  the  rest  as  easily. 

"They  staid  at  the  farm  two  weeks,  and  then  went  to 
New  York  to  live.  When  I  was  eight  years  old  my  father 
was  killed  in  the  war,  and  mother  was  broken-hearted.  She 
never  was  quite  strong  afterwards,  and  that  summer  we 
decided  to  go  up  to  the  farm  for  three  months. 

"I  was  a  restless  sort  of  a  child,  and  the  journey  seemed 
very  long  to  me;  and  finally,  to  pass  the  time,  mamma  told 
me  the  story  of  the  little  room,  and  how  it  was  all  in  her 
own  imagination,  and  how  there  really  was  only  a  china- 
closet  there. 

"She  told  it  with  all  the  particulars;  and  even  to  me,  who 
knew  beforehand  that  the  room  wasn't  there,  it  seemed  just 
as  real  as  could  be.  She  said  it  was  on  the  north  side,  be- 


THE  LITTLE  ROOM  341 

tween  the  front  and  back  rooms;  that  it  was  very  small,  and 
they  sometimes  called  it  an  entry.  There  was  a  door  also 
that  opened  out-of-doors,  and  that  one  was  painted  green, 
and  was  cut  in  the  middle  like  the  old  Dutch  doors,  so  that 
it  could  be  used  for  a  window  by  opening  the  top  part  only. 
Directly  opposite  the  door  was  a  lounge  or  couch;  it  was 
covered  with  blue  chintz — India  chintz — some  that  had 
been  brought  over  by  an  old  Salem  sea-captain  as  a 
Venture.'  He  had  given  it  to  Hannah  when  she  was  a 
young  girl.  She  was  sent  to  Salem  for  two  years  to  school. 
Grandfather  originally  came  from  Salem." 

"I  thought  there  wasn't  any  room  or  chintz." 

"That  is  just  it.  They  had  decided  that  mother  had 
imagined  it  all,  and  yet  you  see  how  exactly  everything  was 
painted  in  her  mind,  for  she  had  even  remembered  that 
Hiram  had  told  her  that  Hannah  could  have  married  the 
sea-captain  if  she  had  wanted  to! 

"The  India  cotton  was  the  regular  blue  stamped  chintz, 
with  the  peacock  figure  on  it.  The  head  and  body  of  the 
bird  were  in  profile,  while  the  tail  was  full  front  view  be 
hind  it.  It  had  seemed  to  take  mamma's  fancy,  and  she  drew 
it  for  me  on  a  piece  of  paper  as  she  talked.  Doesn't  it 
seem  strange  to  you  that  she  could  have  made  all  that  up, 
or  even  dreamed  it  ? 

"At  the  foot  of  the  lounge  were  some  hanging  shelves  with 
some  old  books  on  them.  All  the  books  were  leather-colored 
except  one;  that  was  bright  red,  and  was  called  the  Ladies' 
Album.  It  made  a  bright  break  between  the  other  thicker 
books. 

"On  the  lower  shelf  was  a  beautiful  pink  sea-shell,  lying 
on  a  mat  made  of  balls  of  red  shaded  worsted.  This  shell 
was  greatly  coveted  by  mother,  but  she  was  only  allowed  to 
play  with  it  when  she  had  been  particularly  good.  Hiram 
had  shown  her  how  to  hold  it  close  to  her  ear  and  hear  the 
roar  of  the  sea  in  it. 

"I  know  you  will  like  Hiram,  Roger;  he  is  quite  a  char 
acter  in  his  way. 

"Mamma  said  she  remembered,  or  thought  she  remembered, 
having  been  sick  once,  and  she  had  to  lie  quietly  for  some 


342   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

days  on  the  lounge;  then  was  the  time  she  had  become  so 
familiar  with  everything  in  the  room,  and  she  had  been 
allowed  to  have  the  shell  to  play  with  all  the  time.  She  had 
had  her  toast  brought  to  her  in  there,  with  make-believe  tea. 
It  was  one  of  her  pleasant  memories  of  her  childhood;  it 
was  the  first  time  she  had  been  of  any  importance  to  any 
body,  even  herself. 

"Right  at  the  head  of  the  lounge  was  a  light-stand,  as 
they  called  it,  and  on  it  was  a  very  brightly  polished  brass 
candlestick  and  a  brass  tray  with  snuffers.  That  is  all  I 
remember  of  her  describing,  except  that  there  was  a  braided 
rag  rug  on  the  floor,  and  on  the  wall  was  a  beautiful  flowered 
paper — roses  and  morning-glories  in  a  wreath  on  a  light 
blue  ground.  The  same  paper  was  in  the  front  room." 

"And  all  this  never  existed  except  in  her  imagination?" 

"She  said  that  when  she  and  father  went  up  there,  there 
wasn't  any  little  room  at  all  like  it  anywhere  in  the  house; 
there  was  a  china-closet  where  she  had  believed  the  room  to 
be." 

"And  your  aunts  said  there  had  never  been  any  such 
room." 

"That  is  what  they  said." 

"Wasn't  there  any  blue  chintz  in  the  house  with  a  pea 
cock  figure?" 

"Not  a  scrap,  and  Aunt  Hannah  said  there  had  never 
been  any  that  she  could  remember;  and  Aunt  Maria  just 
echoed  her — she  always  does  that.  You  see,  Aunt  Hannah  is 
an  up-and-down  New  England  woman.  She  looks  just  like 
herself;  I  mean,  just  like  her  character.  Her  joints  move  up 
and  down  or  backward  and  forward  in  a  plain  square 
fashion.  I  don't  believe  she  ever  leaned  on  anything  in 
her  life,  or  sat  in  an  easy-chair.  But  Maria  is  different; 
she  is  rounder  and  softer — she  hasn't  any  ideas  of  her  own, 
she  never  had  any.  I  don't  believe  she  would  think  it  right 
or  becoming  to  have  one  that  differed  from  Aunt  Hannah's, 
so  what  would  be  the  use  of  having  any?  She  is  an  echo, 
that's  all. 

"When  mamma  and  I  got  there,  of  course  I  was  all  ex 
citement  to  see  the  china-closet,  and  I  had  a  sort  of  feeling 


THE  LITTLE  ROOM  343 

that  it  would  be  the  little  room  after  all.  So  I  ran  ahead 
and  threw  open  the  door,  crying,  'Come  and  see  the  little 
room.' 

"And  Roger,"  said  Mrs.  Grant,  laying  her  hand  in  his, 
"there  really  was  a  little  room  there,  exactly  as  mother  had 
remembered  it.  There  was  the  lounge,  the  peacock  chintz, 
the  green  door,  the  shell,  the  morning-glory,  and  the  rose 
paper,  everything  exactly  as  she  had  described  it  to  me." 

"What  in  the  world  did  the  sisters  say  about  it?" 

"Wait  a  minute  and  I  will  tell  you.  My  mother  was 
in  the  front  hall  still  talking  with  Aunt  Hannah.  She 
didn't  hear  me  at  first,  but  I  ran  out  there  and  dragged  her 
through  the  front  room,  saying,  'The  room  is  here — it  is  all 
right' 

"It  seemed  for  a  minute  as  if  my  mother  would  faint.  She 
clung  to  me  in  terror.  I  can  remember  now  how  strained  her 
eyes  looked  and  how  pale  she  was. 

"I  called  out  to  Aunt  Hannah  and  asked  her  when  they 
had  had  the  closet  taken  away  and  the  little  room  built;  for 
in  my  excitement  I  thought  that  was  what  had  been  done. 

"  'That  little  room  has  always  been  there,'  said  Aunt 
Hannah,  'ever  since  the  house  was  built.' 

"  'But  mamma  said  there  wasn't  any  little  room  here,  only 
a  china-closet,  when  she  was  here  with  papa,'  said  I. 

"  'No,  there  has  never  been  any  china-closet  there;  it  has 
always  been  just  as  it  is  now,'  said  Aunt  Hannah. 

"Then  mother  spoke;  her  voice  sounded  weak  and  far  off. 
She  said,  slowly,  and  with  an  effort,  'Maria,  don't  you  re 
member  that  you  told  me  that  there  had  never  been  any  little 
room  here,  and  Hannah  said  so  too,  and  then  I  said  I 
must  have  dreamed  it?' 

"  'No,  I  don't  remember  anything  of  the  kind,'  said  Maria, 
without  the  slightest  emotion.  'I  don't  remember  you  ever 
said  anything  about  any  china-closet.  The  house  has  never 
been  altered;  you  used  to  play  in  this  room  when  you  were 
a  child,  don't  you  remember?' 

"  'I  know  it,'  said  mother,  in  that  queer  slow  voice  that 
made  me  feel  frightened.  'Hannah,  don't  you  remember  my 
finding  the  china-closet  here,  with  the  gilt-edged  china  on 


344    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

the  shelves,  and  then  you  said  the  china-closet  had  always 
been  here?' 

"  'No/  said  Hannah,  pleasantly  but  unemotionally,  'no, 
I  don't  think  you  ever  asked  me  about  any  china-closet,  and 
we  haven't  any  gilt-edged  china  that  I  know  of.' 

"And  that  was  the  strangest  thing  about  it.  We  never 
could  make  them  remember  that  there  had  ever  been  any 
question  about  it.  You  would  think  they  could  remember 
how  surprised  mother  had  been  before,  unless  she  had  im 
agined  the  whole  thing.  Oh,  it  was  so  queer!  They  were 
always  pleasant  about  it,  but  they  didn't  seem  to  feel  any 
interest  or  curiosity.  It  was  always  this  answer:  'The 
house  is  just  as  it  was  built;  there  have  never  been  any 
changes,  so  far  as  we  know.' 

"And  my  mother  was  in  an  agony  of  perplexity.  How 
cold  their  gray  eyes  looked  to  me!  There  was  no  reading 
anything  in  them.  It  just  seemed  to  break  my  mother  down, 
this  queer  thing.  Many  times  that  summer,  in  the  middle  of 
the  night,  I  have  seen  her  get  up  and  take  a  candle  and  creep 
softly  down-stairs.  I  could  hear  the  steps  creak  under  her 
weight.  Then  she  would  go  through  the  front  room  and 
peer  into  the  darkness,  holding  her  thin  hand  between  the 
candle  and  her  eyes.  She  seemed  to  think  the  little  room 
might  vanish.  Then  she  would  come  back  to  bed  and  toss 
about  all  night,  or  lie  still  and  shiver;  it  used  to  frighten 
me. 

"She  grew  pale  and  thin,  and  she  had  a  little  cough; 
then  she  did  not  like  to  be  left  alone.  Sometimes  she  would 
make  errands  in  order  to  send  me  to  the  little  room  for  some 
thing — a  book,  or  her  fan,  or  her  handkerchief;  but  she 
would  never  sit  there  or  let  me  stay  in  there  long,  and  some 
times  she  wouldn't  let  me  go  in  there  for  days  together.  Oh, 
it  was  pitiful!" 

"Well,  don't  talk  any  more  about  it,  Margaret,  if  it  makes 
you  feel  so,"  said  Mr.  Grant. 

"Ch  yes,  I  want  you  to  know  all  about  it,  and  there  isn't 
much  more — no  more  about  the  room. 

"Mother  never  got  well,  and  she  died  that  autumn.  She 
used  often  to  sigh,  and  say,  with  a  wan  little  laugh,  'There 


THE  LITTLE  ROOM  345 

is  one  thing  I  am  glad  of,  Margaret ;  your  father  knows  now 
all  about  the  little  room/  I  think  she  was  afraid  I  dis 
trusted  her.  Of  course,  in  a  child's  way,  I  thought  there  was 
something  queer  about  it,  but  I  did  not  brood  over  it.  I  was 
too  young  then,  and  took  it  as  a  part  of  her  illness.  But, 
Roger,  do  you  know,  it  really  did  affect  me.  I  almost  hate 
to  go  there  after  talking  about  it;  I  somehow  feel  as  if  it 
might,  you  know,  be  a  china-closet  again." 

"That's  an  absurd  idea." 

"I  know  it;  of  course  it  can't  be.  I  saw  the  room,  and 
there  isn't  any  china-closet  there,  and  no  gilt-edged  china  in 
the  house,  either." 

And  then  she  whispered:  "But,  Roger,  you  may  hold  my 
hand  as  you  do  now,  if  you  will,  when  we  go  to  look  for  the 
little  room." 

"And  you  won't  mind  Aunt  Hannah's  gray  eyes?" 

"I  won't  mind  anything." 

It  was  dusk  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grant  went  into  the  gate 
under  the  two  old  Lombardy  poplars  and  walked  up  the 
narrow  path  to  the  door,  where  they  were  met  by  the  two 
aunts. 

Hannah  gave  Mrs.  Grant  a  frigid  but  not  unfriendly  kiss; 
and  Maria  seemed  for  a  moment  to  tremble  on  the  verge  of 
an  emotion,  but  she  glanced  at  Hannah,  and  then  gave  her 
greeting  in  exactly  the  same  repressed  and  non-committal 
way. 

Supper  was  waiting  for  them.  On  the  table  was  the  gilt- 
edged  china.  Mrs.  Grant  didn't  notice  it  immediately,  till 
she  saw  her  husband  smiling  at  her  over  his  teacup ;  then  she 
felt  fidgety,  and  couldn't  eat.  She  was  nervous,  and  kept 
wondering  what  was  behind  her,  whether  it  would  be  a  little 
room  or  a  closet. 

After  supper  she  offered  to  help  about  the  dishes,  but, 
mercy !  she  might  as  well  have  offered  to  help  bring  the  sea 
sons  round;  Maria  and  Hannah  couldn't  be  helped. 

So  she  and  her  husband  went  to  find  the  little  room,  or 
closet,  or  whatever  was  to  be  there. 

Aunt  Maria  followed  them,  carrying  the  lamp,  which  she 
set  down,  and  then  went  back  to  the  dish-washing. 


346    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

Margaret  looked  at  her  husband.  He  kissed  her,  for  she 
seemed  troubled;  and  then,  hand  in  hand,  they  opened  the 
door.  It  opened  into  a  china-closet.  The  shelves  were 
neatly  draped  with  scalloped  paper;  on  them  was  the  gilt- 
edged  china,  with  the  dishes  missing  that  had  been  used  at 
the  supper,  and  which  at  that  moment  were  being  carefully 
washed  and  wiped  by  the  two  aunts. 

Margaret's  husband  dropped  her  hand  and  looked  at  her. 
She  was  trembling  a  little,  and  turned  to  him  for  help,  for 
some  explanation,  but  in  an  instant  she  knew  that  something 
was  wrong.  A  cloud  had  come  between  them;  he  was  hurt, 
he  was  antagonized. 

He  paused  for  an  appreciable  instant,  and  then  said, 
kindly  enough,  but  in  a  voice  that  cut  her  deeply: 

"I  am  glad  this  ridiculous  thing  is  ended;  don't  let  us 
speak  of  it  again." 

"Ended!"  said  she.  "How  ended?"  And  somehow  her 
voice  sounded  to  her  as  her  mother's  voice  had  when  she 
stood  there  and  questioned  her  sisters  about  the  little  room. 
She  seemed  to  have  to  drag  her  words  out.  She  spoke  slowly : 
"It  seems  to  me  to  have  only  begun  in  my  case.  It  was  just 
so  with  mother  when  she — " 

"I  really  wish,  Margaret,  you  would  let  it  drop.  I  don't 
like  to  hear  you  speak  of  your  mother  in  connection  with  it. 
It — "  He  hesitated,  for  was  not  this  their  wedding-day? 
"It  doesn't  seem  quite  the  thing,  quite  delicate,  you  know,  to 
use  her  name  in  the  matter." 

She  saw  it  all  now;  he  didn't  believe  her.  She  felt  a  chill 
sense  of  withering  under  his  glance. 

"Come,"  he  added,  "let  us  go  out,  or  into  the  dining-room, 
somewhere,  anywhere,  only  drop  this  nonsense." 

He  went  out;  he  did  not  take  her  hand  now — he  was 
vexed,  baffled,  hurt.  Had  he  not  given  her  his  sympathy, 
his  attention,  his  belief — and  his  hand? — and  she  was  fool 
ing  him.  What  did  it  mean?  She  so  truthful,  so  free  from 
morbidness — a  thing  he  hated.  He  walked  up  and  down 
under  the  poplars,  trying  to  get  into  the  mood  to  go  and 
join  her  in  the  house. 

Margaret  heard  him  go  out;  then  she  turned  and  shook 


THE  LITTLE  ROOM  347 

the  shelves;  she  reached  her  hand  behind  them  and  tried  to 
push  the  boards  away;  she  ran  out  of  the  house  on  to  the 
north  side  and  tried  to  find  in  the  darkness,  with  her  hands, 
a  door,  or  some  steps  leading  to  one.  She  tore  her  dress  on 
the  old  rose-trees,  she  fell  and  rose  and  stumbled,  then  she 
sat  down  on  the  ground  and  tried  to  think.  What  could  she 
think — was  she  dreaming? 

She  went  into  the  house  and  out  into  the  kitchen,  and 
begged  Aunt  Maria  to  tell  her  about  the  little  room — what 
had  become  of  it,  when  they  had  built  the  closet,  when  had 
they  bought  the  gilt-edged  china? 

They  went  on  washing  dishes  and  drying  them  on  the  spot 
less  towels  with  methodical  exactness;  and  as  they  worked 
they  said  that  there  had  never  been  any  little  room,  so  far  as 
they  knew;  the  china-closet  had  always  been  there,  and  the 
gilt-edged  china  had  belonged  to  their  mother,  it  had  always 
been  in  the  house. 

"No,  I  don't  remember  that  your  mother  ever  asked  about 
any  little  room,"  said  Hannah.  "She  didn't  seem  very  well 
that  summer,  but  she  never  asked  about  any  changes  in  the 
house;  there  hadn't  ever  been  any  changes." 

There  it  was  again:  not  a  sign  of  interest,  curiosity,  or 
annoyance,  not  a  spark  of  memory. 

She  went  out  to  Hiram.  He  was  telling  Mr.  Grant  about 
the  farm.  She  had  meant  to  ask  him  about  the  room,  but 
her  lips  were  sealed  before  her  husband. 

Months  afterwards,  when  time  had  lessened  the  sharp 
ness  of  their  feelings,  they  learned  to  speculate  reasonably 
about  the  phenomenon,  which  Mr.  Grant  had  accepted  as 
something  not  to  be  scoffed  away,  not  to  be  treated  as  a  poor 
joke,  but  to  be  put  aside  as  something  inexplicable  on  any 
ordinary  theory. 

Margaret  alone  in  her  heart  knew  that  her  mother's  words 
carried  a  deeper  significance  than  she  had  dreamed  of  at 
that  time.  "One  thing  I  am  glad  of,  your  father  knows 
now,"  and  she  wondered  if  Roger  or  she  would  ever  know. 

Five  years  later  they  were  going  to  Europe.  The  pack 
ing  was  done;  the  childvec.  were  lying  asleep,  with  their 
traveling  things  ready  to  be  slipped  on  for  an  early  start. 


348   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

Roger  had  a  foreign  appointment.  They  were  not  to  be 
back  in  America  for  some  years.  She  had  meant  to  go  up 
to  say  good-by  to  her  aunts;  but  a  mother  of  three  children 
intends  to  do  a  great  many  things  that  never  get  done.  One 
thing  she  had  done  that  very  day,  and  as  she  paused  for  a 
moment  between  the  writing  of  two  notes  that  must  be  posted 
before  she  went  to  bed,  she  said : 

"Roger,  you  remember  Rita  Lash?  Well,  she  and  Cousin 
Nan  go  up  to  the  Adirondacks  every  autumn.  They  are 
clever  girls,  and  I  have  intrusted  to  them  something  I  want 
done  very  much." 

"They  are  the  girls  to  do  it,  then,  every  inch  of  them." 

"I  know  it,  and  they  are  going  to." 

"Well?" 

"Why,  you  see,  Roger,  that  little  room — " 

«Oh— " 

"Yes,  I  was  a  coward  not  to  go  myself,  but  I  didn't  find 
time,  because  I  hadn't  the  courage." 

"Oh!  that  was  it,  was  it?" 

"Yes,  just  that.  They  are  going,  and  they  will  write  us 
about  it." 

"Want  to  get—?" 

"No;  I  only  want  to  know." 

Rita  Lash  and  Cousin  Nan  planned  to  go  to  Vermont  on 
their  way  to  the  Adirondacks.  They  found  they  would  have 
three  hours  between  trains,  which  would  give  them  time  to 
drive  up  to  the  Keys  farm,  and  they  could  still  get  to  the 
camp  that  night.  But,  at  the  last  minute,  Rita  was  pre 
vented  from  going.  Nan  had  to  go  to  meet  the  Adirondack 
party,  and  she  promised  to  telegraph  Rita  when  she  arrived 
at  the  camp.  Imagine  Rita's  amusement  when  she  re 
ceived  this  message:  "Safely  arrived;  went  to  Keys  farm; 
it  is  a  little  room." 

Rita  was  amused,  because  she  did  not  in  the  least  think 
Nan  had  been  there.  She  thought  it  was  a  hoax ;  but  it  put 
it  into  her  mind  to  carry  the  joke  further  by  really  stopping 
herself  when  she  went  up,  as  she  meant  to  do  the  next  week. 
She  did  stop  over.  She  introduced  herself  to  the  two  maiden 


THE  LITTLE  ROOM  349 

ladies,  who  seemed  familiar,  as  they  had  been  described  by 
Mrs.  Grant. 

They  were,  if  not  cordial,  at  least  not  disconcerted  at  her 
visit,  and  willingly  showed  her  over  the  house.  As  they  did 
not  speak  of  any  other  stranger's  having  been  to  see  them 
lately,  she  became  confirmed  in  her  belief  that  Nan  had  not 
been  there. 

In  the  north  room  she  saw  the  roses  and  morning-glory 
paper  on  the  wall,  and  also  the  door  that  should  open  into — • 
what? 

She  asked  if  she  might  open  it. 

"Certainly,"  said  Hannah;  and  Maria  echoed,  "Certainly." 

She  opened  it,  and  found  the  china-closet.  She  expe 
rienced  a  certain  relief;  she  at  least  was  not  under  any  spell 
Mrs.  Grant  left  it  a  china-closet;  she  found  it  .the  same. 
Good. 

But  she  tried  to  induce  the  old  sisters  to  remember  that 
there  had  at  various  times  been  certain  questions  relating  to 
a  confusion  as  to  whether  the  closet  had  always  been  a  closet. 
It  was  no  use ;  their  stony  eyes  gave  no  sign. 

Then  she  thought  of  the  story  of  the  sea-captain,  and 
said,  "Miss  Keys,  did  you  ever  have  a  lounge  covered  with 
India  chintz,  with  a  figure  of  a  peacock  on  it,  given  to  you 
in  Salem  by  a  sea-captain,  who  brought  it  from  India?" 

"I  dun'no  as  I  ever  did,"  said  Hannah.  That  was  all. 
She  thought  Maria's  cheeks  were  a  little  flushed,  but  her  eyes 
were  like  a  stone  wall. 

She  went  on  that  night  to  the  Adirondacks.  When  Nan 
and  she  were  alone  in  their  room  she  said:  "By-the-way, 
Nan,  what  did  you  see  at  the  farm-house,  and  how  did  you 
like  Maria  and  Hannah?" 

Nan  didn't  mistrust  that  Rita  had  been  there,  and  she 
began  excitedly  to  tell  her  all  about  her  visit.  Rita  could 
almost  have  believed  Nan  had  been  there  if  she  hadn't  known 
it  was  not  so.  She  let  her  go  on  for  some  time,  enjoying  her 
enthusiasm,  and  the  impressive  way  in  which  she  described 
her  opening  the  door  and  finding  the  "little  room."  Then 
Rita  said:  "Now,  Nan,  that  is  enough  fibbing.  I  went  to 
the  farm  myself  on  my  way  up  yesterday,  and  there  is  no 


350    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

little  room,  and  there  never  has  been  any;  it  is  a  china- 
closet,  just  as  Mrs.  Grant  saw  it  last." 

She  was  pretending  to  be  busy  unpacking  her  trunk,  and 
did  not  look  up  for  a  moment;  but  as  Nan  did  not  say  any 
thing,  she  glanced  at  her  over  her  shoulder.  Nan  was  act 
ually  pale,  and  it  was  hard  to  say  whether  she  was  most 
angry  or  frightened.  There  was  something  of  both  in  her 
look.  And  then  Rita  began  to  explain  how  her  telegram 
had  put  her  in  the  spirit  of  going  up  there  alone.  She  hadn't 
meant  to  cut  Nan  out.  She  only  thought —  Then  Nan 
broke  in:  "It  isn't  that;  I  am  sure  you  can't  think  it  is  that. 
But  I  went  myself,  and  you  did  not  go;  you  can't  have  been 
there,  for  it  is  a  little  room" 

Oh,  what  a  night  they  had !  They  couldn't  sleep.  They 
talked  and  argued,  and  then  kept  still  for  a  while,  only  to 
break  out  again,  it  was  so  absurd.  They  both  maintained 
that  they  had  been  there,  but  both  sure  the  other  one  was 
either  crazy  or  obstinate  beyond  reason.  They  were 
wretched;  it  was  perfectly  ridiculous,  two  friends  at  odds 
over  such  a  thing;  but  there  it  was — "little  room,"  "china- 
closet,"  "china-closet,"  "little  room." 

The  next  morning  Nan  was  tacking  up  some  tarlatan  at  a 
window  to  keep  the  midges  out.  Rita  offered  to  help  her,  as 
she  had  done  for  the  past  ten  years.  Nan's  "No,  thanks," 
cut  her  to  the  heart. 

"Nan,"  said  she,  "come  right  down  from  that  step-ladder 
and  pack  your  satchel.  The  stage  leaves  in  just  twenty 
minutes.  We  can  catch  the  afternoon  express  train,  and  we 
will  go  together  to  the  farm.  I  am  either  going  there  or 
going  home.  You  had  better  go  with  me." 

Nan  didn't  say  a  word.  She  gathered  up  the  hammer  and 
tacks,  and  was  ready  to  start  when  the  stage  came  round. 

It  meant  for  them  thirty  miles  of  staging  and  six  hours  of 
train,  besides  crossing  the  lake;  but  what  of  that,  compared  to 
having  a  lie  lying  round  loose  between  them !  Europe  would 
have  seemed  easy  to  accomplish,  if  it  would  settle  the  ques 
tion. 

At  the  little  junction  in  Vermont  they  found  a  farmer  with 
a  wagon  full  of  meal-bags.  They  asked  him  if  he  could  not 


THE  LITTLE  ROOM  351 

take  them  up  to  the  old  Keys  farm  and  bring  them  back  in 
time  for  the  return  train,  due  in  two  hours. 

They  had  planned  to  call  it  a  sketching  trip,  so  they  said, 
"We  have  been  there  before,  we  are  artists,  and  we  might 
find  some  views  worth  taking;  and  we  want  also  to  make  a 
short  call  upon  the  Misses  Keys." 

"Did  ye  calculate  to  paint  the  old  house  in  the  picture?" 

They  said  it  was  possible  they  might  do  so.  They  wanted 
to  see  it,  anyway. 

"Waal,  I  guess  you  are  too  late.  The  house  burnt  dovn 
last  night,  and  everything  in  it." 


AUNT  S  ANNA  TERRY  * 

By  LANDON  R.  DASHIELL 

DAT  ain'  my  true  name.  Miss  Honey  jes'  call  me  dat. 
My  name  is  Mrs.  Leah  Heber  Jenkins  an'  I'se  been 
sellin'  fried  chicken  an'  coffee,  pies  an'  milk  fuh 
mo'n  twenty  years  at  de  depot  uv  dis  here  town  where  mo'n 
ten  .train*  p?,ss  ewy  day.  I  allers  make  ernuf  ter  feed  me 
an'  my  good-fuh-nothin'  son  an'  ter  keep  a  roof  over  we-alls' 
haids,  his'n  an'  mine,  dat  is,  when  he  was  little.  Now  dat 
he  is  done  growed  up  he's  allers  up  ter  some  devilment, 
drank  an'  sich,  an'  I  has  a  hard  ole  time,  you  jes'  bet  yo' 
sweet  life  I  does.  Dey  got  him  in  jail  now,  'cause  a  white 
gent 'man  done  tole  me  'twas  de  bes'  place  fuh  him  to  larn 
some  sense,  ef  he  got  any.  I'se  tryin'  it,  but  I'se  got  my 
doubts. 

Ewy  day,  rain  an'  shine,  I'se  brought  my  waiter  uv  good 
eatin's  an'  my  bilin'  hot  coffee  ter  dis  depot  an'  in  all  dat 
time  I  ain'  done  payin'  dem  'stallmint  tickets  on  my  house 
an'  lot  on  de  aidge  uv  town  where  I  raises  my  chickens. 

Dere  was  a  time  when  we-all  colored  women  folks  could 
sell  we-alls'  eatin's  fum  de  flatform,  but  dat  done  been 
stopped  a  long  an'  a  merry  ago.  De  railroad  done  bought  de 
hotel  an'  dem  black  boys,  callin'  deyself  waiters  fum  de 
hotel,  sells  fum  de  flatform  an'  we-all  has  ter  sell  fum  de 
yuther  side  uv  de  train.  Dem  boys  ain'  nothin'  but  heath 
ens  an'  idols  an'  de  wuss  kinder  black  trash,  so  I  don'  pay 
no  'tention  ter  'em. 

One  drizzly  mawnin'  'bout  seben  erclock  I  took  my 
waiter  full,  my  stool,  an'  my  umberrell  ter  de  depot  an'  sot 
myself  down  ter  wait  fuh  Number  19,  due  at  seben-fifteen  an* 
allers  late.  I  took  two  cat-naps  'fo'  I  heerd  her  whistle  and 

*By  permission  of  the  author. 

352 


AUNT  SANNA  TERRY  353 

pres'ny  here  she  come,  ringin'  an'  tootin'  an  snortin',  jes 
like  she  was  de  one  an  only.  I  sot  my  waiter  on  de  stool  an' 
prop  my  umberrell  over  it  an'  watched  de  winders  fuh  hun 
gry  folks.  One  winder  flewed  up  an'  a  pale-face'  young 
lady  look  out  at  me  an'  smile. 

"Oh!  Auntie,"  she  say,  "fuh  goodness  sake  gim  me  two 
pieces  uv  chicken  an'  a  cup  uv  coffee.  I  been  travelin'  sence 
'fo'  fo'  erclock  dis  mawnin'  an'  I'se  jes'  starvinV 

I  knowed  she  was  quality  folks  when  I  fus  seen  her,  an' 
when  she  talked  I  knowed  it  fuh  sho.  I  picked  de  bes'  fuh 
her  an'  po'd  out  a  cup  uv  my  good  coffee  soon  as  I  could. 
She  et  up  de  chicken  like  smoke  an'  ast  fuh  mo',  but  she  jes' 
sip  at  de  coffee.  Den  she  pop  her  haid  out  uv  de  winder 
ergin. 

"Dey  tells  me  dat  dis  train  stops  here  half  a  hour,"  she 
say,  "so  I'se  goin'  to  git  off  an'  talk  ter  you  a  while." 

I  was  busy  with  yuther  hungry  folks  an'  I  jes'  say,  hearty 
like,  "Come  erlong,  Honey,  an'  talk  much  as  you  wanter." 
She  look  so  puitty  an'  smile  so  sweet  dat  I  couldn't  keep  dese 
ole  eyes  off  her. 

"Do  you  know  you  has  de  bes'  fried  chicken  I  ever  tasted 
an'  your  pie  looks  jes'  as  good,  but  your  coffee  is  vile,  puf- 
fickly  vile!" 

Jes'  like  dat  she  said  it  ter  me  an*  me  been  makin'  coffee 
evvy  sence  'fo'  she  was  bornded.  But  she  was  quality  an' 
talk  jes'  as  puitty,  but  it  made  me  sorter  mad  fuh  ter  hear 
my  coffee  spoke  uv  sich  a  pernickety  way.  I  hilt  myself  up 
wid  my  bes'  manners  an'  look  at  her.  "Some  folks,"  I  say, 
"don't  know  dey  own  business  when  dey  see  it  comin'  down 
de  road." 

"Well,"  she  say,  "you  see  I  has  ter  drink  it  an'  it  is  my 
business  in  a  way."  She  spoke  gentle  an'  I  knowed  dat  she 
done  been  riz  up  as  well  as  me  ter  know  dat  manners  is  a 
sign  uv  quality.  "Well  ma'am,"  I  says,  "I'se  sorry  you 
don't  like  it.  Most  folks,  dem  uv  de  quality,  thinks  it  are 
fine."  I  bow  to  her. 

"Now  don't  be  offended,"  she  say,  "I  want  to  be  your  fren' 
an*  give  you  a  few  sirgestions."  Not  knowin*  what  dey  is 
J  didn't  said  nothin'.  "Perhaps,  howsomever,  you  don't 


354    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

need  no  help."  I  tole  her  I  had  a  hard  time  fuh  ter  make 
dem  two  eends  meet  what  folks  is  allers  talkin'  'bout.  Den 
she  talked  erlong  so  puitty  dat  soon  I  done  tole  her  all  my 
troubles.  She  stood  leanin'  erginst  de  fence  wid  her  little 
short  skirt  showin'  mo'n  jes'  her  little  feet.  My!  my!  dat 
skirt  was  short,  but  it  didn't  seem  ter  make  no  sorter  dif 
ference  to  her.  She  picked  a  mawnin'-glory  blossom  off  de 
fence  an'  pulled  it  ter  pieces  while  she  was  studyin'  like. 

"Now  I'se  goin'  ter  say  sumpin'  dat  you  may  not  like,"  she 
say,  "but  jes'  believe  dat  I  wants  ter  help  you."  She  look  at 
me  outen  de  cornder  uv  her  eye  an'  I  knowed  she  wanted  ter 
fin'  out  ef  I  was  one  uv  dem  easy  'fended  folks.  I  call  my 
manners  ter  stan'  by.  "You  have  heerd  people  say  dat  clean 
liness  is  nex'  ter  godliness?"  I  nod  my  haid,  but  I  ain' 
never  heerd  enny  but  preacher  folks  say  it  an'  dey  pay  much 
'tention  ter  it.  I  ain'  never  fin'  it  in  de  Bible,  de  onlies' 
book  I  got  time  ter  read. 

"Well,"  she  say,  "cleanliness  is  a  big  part  uv  godliness. 
I  know  you  are  a  good 'woman,"  she  kep'  on,  crinklin'  up 
her  eyes  an'  smilin'  at  me  'tell  I  felt  real  at  home  wid. her. 
"I'se  good  accordin'  ter  my  lights,"  says  I. 

"I  want  you  ter  do  sumpin  fuh  me,"  she  say.  (I  might 
er  knowed  it  was  comin'  ter  dat !)  "I  want  you  ter  wear  here 
at  de  depot  a  white  cap,  a  large  white  ap'on  an'  white  cotton 
gloves  an'  a  lovely  white  han 'kerchief  folded  ercross  dis  way," 
smilin'  an*  crossin'  her  little  white  ban's  over  her  puitty 
front. 

"Lawd-a-mussy,  Honey,  I  ain'  got  time  ter  truck  wid  all 
dat  foolishness,  an'  mo'n  dat  I  ain'  go  no  money  fuh  ter  git 
all  dem  things."  "If  you  will  use  the  things  I  will  sen'  you 
a  supply  uv  'em  when  I  gets  home  ter-day,"  she  say. 

"Honey,  I  sho  is  'bleeged  ter  you,  but  I  can'  wear  no 
gloves.  Dese  here  han's  is  done  serve  widout  gloves  sence 
I  was  little  an'  I  'spec'  dey  is  goin'  on  doin'  it.  I  don'  min' 
de  ap'on  an'  sich,  but  dem  gloves  goes  erginst  my  grain." 
"Ah!  please  try  it,  fuh  my  sake,"  she  say.  "I  will  be  back 
here  in  a  week  fum  termorrow  an'  it  would  'joice  my  heart 
ter  see  you  look  so  enticin'." 

"I  dont  know  'bout  enticin'/'  I  say,  "but  don'  I  look  all 


AUNT  SANNA  TERRY  355 

right?"  "Not  a  patch  on  wliat  you  kin  look!"  she  say, 
"Mo'soinover,  jes'  now  you  had  to  slap  dat  po',  hungry,  yel- 
ler  dog  away  fum  yo'  waiter  an'  dat  ain'  neither  clean  nor 
sannerterry."  Den  she  pout  her  puitty  mouth  out  wid  all 
dem  foolishest  words  she  was  er  sayin'. 

"I  mos'  gineral  kicks  dat  good-fuh-nothin',  bone-eatin' 
hound,  but  I'se  been  er  slappin'  er  kickin'  him,  er  one  like 
him,  fuh  mo'n  twenty  years.  I  don'  reckon,  Miss  Honey,  dat 
you  notis  dat  I  allers  puts  my  chicken  an'  my  pie  in  paper 
bags  when  I  han's  'em  ter  folks."  "Yes,  I  know  you  do," 
she  say,  "an'  ,we  won't  argue  'bout  dat.  If  you  will  do  as  I 
sirgest  you  will  double  your  sales  in  a  week.  Try  it  an'  let 
me  know.  I  will  send  de  package  anyway."  Her  train  was 
comin'  an'  she  smiled  good-bye  while  I  hustled  ter  sell  what 
I  could. 

Nex'  day,  shonuff,  de  package  come  an'  a  note  ter*say  de 
day  she  would  be  back.  I  thought  I  would  wait  tell  dat  day 
ter  dress  up  in  dem  sirgestions,  but  what  she  done  say  'bout 
double  sales  onsettled  my  min'  so  dat  I  couldn't  wait.  I 
'member'd  all  her  young  an'  foolish  talkmints  an'  I  knowed 
'twon'  no  good  comin'  by  mixin'  cleanliness  an'  godliness  de 
way  she  say.  It  did'n  soun'  right  ter  me.  Dat  Produgal 
Boy  did'n  had  no  shirt  ter  his  back,  an'  John  de  Baptis'  did'n 
had  no  gloves  fuh  ter  eat  his  locusses  an'  wil'  honey  wid. 
Jezebel  an'  Sheba  seem  ter  me  to  be  de  onlies?  ones  ter  do  all 
de  dressin'  up  an'  den  'twon'  fuh  no  good  puppose. 

Howsomever,  I  went  ter  de  depot  dat  ebenin',  mad  'fo' 
I  start  in  'cas'  some  uv  dem  fresh  brats  try  ter  sass  me,  an' 
I  wan'  ter  be  ready  fuh  'em.  I  had  on  all  de  sirgestions  but 
dem  gloves.  I  couldn'  go  'em,  but  I  'spec'  Miss  Honey  will 
bring  me  to  'em  yit.  Ef  I  didn't  look  like  de  Queen  uv 
Sheba  I  looked  like  a  big  fat  fool  an'  felt  wuss.  I  hilt  my 
haid  high  an'  sot  my  stool  down  in  de  place  where  it  berlong, 
an'  lift  my  waiter  off  my  haid  and  sot  it  on  de  stool.  All  de 
time  I  could  hear  what  de  yuthers  was  sayin'  an'  it  'pear 
like  ter  me  dat  I  could  hear  sumpin'  fum  dat  black  trash  on 
de  flatform. 

"Fuh  Gawd  sake,  look  at  Sis'  Leah  Jenkins!"  say  Sis' 


356    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

Malviny  Jones,  her  wid  de  scar.  "Is  she  done  los'  her 
min'?" 

"All  dat  truck  ter  wash,  too,"  say  one  uv  de  yuthers,  "an* 
makin'  herself  dat  'spicuous.  'Tain'  like  Sis'  Leah  ter  do  dat 
way;  at  her  aidge  an'  size  she  ought  ter  know  better.  Look 
like  trouble  wid  dat  boy  uv  hern  done  turn  her  min'." 

"Look  at  de  Queen  uv  de  May,  fuh  Gawd  sake!"  I  heered 
fum  de  flatform  fum  one  uv  dem  Niggerdemusses.  Dat  was 
ernuff  fer  Leah!  I  went  over  de  track  an'  step  up  on  de 
flatform  an'  slapped  de  face  uv  de  foremus  one,  an'  he  shet 
up.  De  yuthers  back  off  an*  I  followed  dem  up  an'  shuck 
my  fits'  an'  tole  'em  dey  was  jes'  de  ve'y  spittin'  image  of  dat 
generation  of  vipers  in  de  Bible  an'  hell  won't  hot  ernuff  fuh 
'em.  I'd  fix  'em  sho  as  I  was  a  Christian  woman.  Some 
uv  'em  look  solemn  an'  some  uv  'em  laff,  but  dey  didn'  said 
no  mo'.  Dey  knowed  I  could  lay  out  two  er  three  uv  'em  wid 
my  fisses.  I  ain'  goin'  ter  fight  enny  mo'n  I  has  ter,  but  de 
incipiency  uv  dese  young  niggers  is  almos5  onpossible  fuh 
a  lady  ter  stan'.  Laffin  at  me!  de  low-down  trash!  I'll 
larn  'em  some  sense.  I  made  my  min'  up  den  an  dere  fuh 
ter  wear  all  dem  sirgestions,  gloves  an.'  all,  dat  Miss  Honey 
done  sont  me  ef  I  had  ter  kill  some  uv  dem  smarties  on  de 
flatform.  I  ain'  feared  uv  nothin'  but  de  Lawd. 

Arter  a  while  Number  6  come  in  an*  folkses  haids  was 
stickin'  out  all  de  winders,  hollerin'  "Chicken!  Pie!  here!" 
Some  uv  'em  look  at  me  an  wave  dey  han'  an'  one  say, 
"Don'  she  look  sweet?"  Dat  was  de  fus'  kin'  word  I  heered 
dat  ebenin'.  Well,  I  was  busy !  I  never  was  so  busy  befo'. 
An'  de  money  come  in,  too.  'Fo'  de  nex'  train  come  I  slip  on 
dem  gloves  'cause  my  han's  was  real  dirty  by  dat  time.  Fus' 
I  flung  some  bones  ter  dat  yeller  dog  an'  give  him  a  kick  ter 
'member  me  by.  Ewybody  wanted  my  chicken  an'  ast  me 
so  many  questions  dat  I  was  mos'  confusticated.  But  dey 
kep'  on  buyin'  an'  dat  jes'  suit  me  down  ter  de  groun'.  I 
sold  mo'n  mo'.  When  de  train  was  gone  de  yuthers  come 
'roun'  me  an'  ast  questions,  tryin'  ter  fin'  a  way  ter  make  me 
talk.  I  ain'  no  talker  an'  mo'n  dat  I  was  still  mad  wid  'em 
all  fuh  dey  sass.  I  knowed  some  uv  'em  would  be  tryin' 
ter  follow  my  'sperience  'fo'  long. 


AUNT  SANNA  TERRY  357 

"Sis*  Leah,"  said  Sis'  Lily  Langtry,  she  wid  de  flat  nose, 
"Don'  you  'Sis'  Leah'  me  tell  you  lain  better  manners,"  says 
I,  an'  she  shet  up. 

De  day  my  Miss  Honey  come  back  was  bright  an*  hot.  I 
was  at  my  place  wid  all  dem  things  on,  wash'd  an'  i'on'd 
overnight.  I  jes  couldn't  keep  my  face  straight  when  I  sawn 
her  lookin'  outen  de  winder  as  de  train  come  ter  a  stop. 

"My!  Leah,  how  gran'  you  look!"  she  say,  "I  have  half 
hour  ter  wait  an'  I  want  ter  hear  ewything  an'  eat  evvy- 
thing!" 

When  I  had  done  my  sales  an'  she  had  done  et,  I  gave  her 
de  stool  an'  sot  myself  on  a  turn'd  over  box  an'  den  I  tole 
her  ewything  where  done  happen  sence  she  went  erway. 
Mo'n  dat,  I  tole  her  how  dem  low-down  hounds  on  de  flat- 
form  done  gimme  some  uv  dere  sass.  She  laffed  an'  I 
laffed  wid  her  an'  tole  her  dey  was  all  feered  uv  me  fum  dat 
time. 

"How  much  has  you  made  dis  week?"  she  ast.  "Twenty 
dollars,  Miss  Honey,  "mo'n  I  ever  is  make  befo'  in  two." 
"Good,"  she  say,  "you  are  goin'  ter  make  mo'n  mo'  fum  dis 
time  on,  'cause  I'se  brought  you  a  percolator  fuh  ter  make 
coffee.  We  are  goin'  ter  have  such  good  coffee  dat  people 
will  travel  jes  ter  tas'e  it!"  She  laff  so  loud  an'  look  so 
puitty  an'  sweet  dat  I  didn't  said  nothin'  'tall  'bout  my  doubts 
'bout  dat  coffee. 

"Well,"  I  say,  "I'se  got  so  much  trade  now  dat  I  has  ter 
git  a  'oman  ter  fry  my  chickens  an'  bake  my  pies  an'  you 
know  I  has  ter  pay  her,  Miss  Honey." 

"Dat  don'  make  no  difference,"  she  say,  "  'cause  you'se 
goin'  to  make  heap  mo'." 

"Honey,  what  is  dat  perambulator  an'  what  does  you  do 
wid  it?"  "It  takes  the  place  uv  dis  horrid  coffee-pot,"  she 
say.  "We  are  not  goin'  ter  have  enny  mo'  biled  coffee." 

"Well,  Honey,  'tain'  go  be  fitten  fuh  ter  drink  den.  Coffee 
is  got  ter  be  biled  er  'tis  jes'  slop."  She  laffed  so  hard  dat 
I  was  s'prised,  but  was  too  perlite  ter  tell  her  so.  I  jes' 
laffed  sof  an'  lady-like. 

"Does  you  use  cream'  an'  what  kin'  uv  sugar?"  she  ast. 
"I  bleeged  ter  tell  you  de  truf.  I  uses  milk  an'  dis  here  gran- 


358    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

bolated  sugar.  I  don'  never  use  dem  lumps  'cause  de  octan- 
gurality  uv  dat  sugar  spile  de  frugality  uv  de  coffee.  I  don' 
use  it  fuh  nothin',"  I  say,  an'  she  jes'  laffed  sof,  an'  crinkle 
up  her  eyes  at  me. 

Den  she  set  ter  work  ter  show  me  how  ter  use  dat  peram 
bulator.  She  open  her  suit-case  dat  one  ov  dem  young 
blacks  fotch  fum  de  flatform  an'  took  out  de  whole  perambu 
lator.  She  lit  de  little  tin  can  where  came  wid  it  an'  sot  it 
under  a  qua't  can  in  a  rack  fuh  ter  git  hot  water,  an'  Gawd 
knows  ennybody  kin  do  dat.  Den  she  scoiled  out  de  peram 
bulator,  and  took  an'  fill  a  little  cup  wid  holes  in  it  dat  be 
longs  inside  de  perambulator,  wid  some  good-smellin'  coffee 
an'  I  notis  it  took  a  lot  ter  fill  it.  Den  she  put  de  contrap 
tion  back  in  de  perambulator  an'  tuk  an'  po'd  in  'bout  two 
pints  uv  bilin'  water,  when  ewybody  know  you  ought  ter  put 
in  cold  water  de  fus'.  Arter  dat  she  sot  de  pot  on  de  little 
rack  an*  soon  de  water  commence  ter  bubble  an'  squirt  up 
thu  a  pipe  an'  dreen  back  thu  de  coffee.  When  it  had  done 
bubble  an'  skuirt  fuh  'bout  fifteen  minits  she  say  de  coffee 
was  ready  an'  sont  me  ter  de  hotel  for  a  pot  uv  cream. 
Cream  indeed!  I  could  see  my  twenty  dollars  a  week  wid 
all  dis  sweet  nonsense  would  soon  go  up  ter  de  spout.  Den 
where  would  Leah  be? 

"Now,  Leah,  you  has  seen  me  make  it  an'  you  can  do  it 
jes'  as  well  an'  maybe  better.  Keep  it  hot  an'  allers  serve  it 
wid  cream  an'  you  kin  go  on  usin'  de  granbolated  sugar. 
Yo  kin  sell  mo'n  you  kin  make.  Call  it  drip  coffee. 
Good-bye!" 

"Miss  Honey,"  I  say,  "don'  go  'tell  you  say  whedder  sho- 
nuff  yu  think  dis  is  a  good  business  fuh  me.  I'se  po'  an' 
I'se  got  ter  pay  dem  'stallmint  tickets  on  my  house  and  lot." 

"You  jes'  try  it  an'  I'll  stan'  by  you,  but  you  won't  need 
me  long."  Den  she  wave  her  han'  an'  step  on  de  train  an* 
kep'  on  lookin'  back  to  wave  her  han'  ter  me,  ole  Leah ! 

"Well,  Leah,"  I  says  ter  myself,  "wid  de  help  uv  de  Lawd 
we  will  try  ter  fotch  a  livin'  outen  dis  mighty  foolish-seemin' 
business  ter  me  an'  ter  Him." 

I  was  low  in  my  min'  uv  ebenin's  tell  I  could  count  my 
money  fuh  dat  day  an'  somehow  it  look  all  right.  'Pear  like 


AUNT  SANNA  TERRY  359 

my  Honey  'Child  did  had  some  sense  in  her  puitty  little  haid. 
I  had  near  ernuff  ter  pay  two  'stallmint  tickets  by  de  eend  uv 
de  business.  I  allers  made  de  pies  myself  yearly  in  de 
mawnin'.  Mo'n  dat  I  didn't  had  no  trouble  wid  dat  peram 
bulator,  nor  wid  de  coffee,  only  folks  couldn't  git  ernuff. 
Dey  kep'  on  callin'  fuh  dat  drippin'  coffee  tell  'twan'  no  mo'. 
But  I  didn't  part  wid  my  ole  pot  uv  biled  coffee  'cause  dere 
was  some  dat  want  ole  biled  coffee  wid  milk,  an'  dey  got  it. 

Twas  a  long  mont'  'fo'  I  seen  Miss  Honey  ergin.  One 
day  she  trip  offen  de  train  an'  come  ter  me.  She  stood  quiet 
while  I  han'  up  ter  a  gent'mun  at  de  winder  two  pieces  uv 
chicken,  two  pieces  uv  pie,  an'  two  cups  uv  dripping  coffee, 
an'  he  was  a  good-lookin'  man  at  dat. 

"Leah,"  she  says,  "I  jes'  got  a  few  minits.  How's  busi 
ness?" 

"Fse  so  glad  ter  see  you,  Miss  Honey,"  I  say.  "Good- 
mawnin'  ter  you."  I  allers  is  pertickler  to  watch  my  man 
ners  'cause  sometimes  de  nices'  folks  fergits  em  an'  comes 
breezin'  an'  blowin'  ter  business.  " Good-ma wnin',  Leah," 
she  say,  wid  a  smile. 

"May  de  Lawd  bless  you,  Miss  Honey,  fuh  comin'  my  way 
dat  time  you  was  so  hungry.  Your  Vice  is  done  help  me 
sho.  Ewybody  loves  my  fixin's  an'  I  loves  'em  now  myself, 
eben  ter  de  gloves.  I  sells  out  mo'  waiters  full  den  dey  all 
put  togedder  an'  I  sho  is  making  good  money." 

She  jes'  clap  her  han's  fuh  joy.  "One  think  I  got  ter  tell 
you,  howsomever,  'bout  dis  perambulated  coffee.  'Tain' 
ernuff  ter  saterfy  dem  as  likes  it  an'  I  has  ter  charge  ten 
cent  a  cup  'count  uv  de  cream.  But  some  uv  'em  still  wants 
de  ole  biled  coffee  wid  milk,  an'  dey  gets  it  fuh  five  cent  a 
cup." 

"Now  how  'bout  your  son  an'  de  'stallmints?"  she  ast. 

"Dis  here  place  has  done  gone  probation,  Miss  Honey,  an' 
he  can't  git  nothin'  fuh  ter  git  drunk  on.  He's  got  a  job 
now  hol'in'  him  down.  I  has  paid  all  de  'stallmints  but  two 
an'  next  week  I  will  git  my  deed.  De  good  Lawd  blessed 
m<*when  He  sont  you  my  way.  My  trade  is  prestablished  in 
de  Lawd  an'  His  mussev  retches  fum  de  horizin'  ter  de 


360    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

rosettin'  uv  de  sun!"     Den  I  wipe  my  eyes  'cause  she  looi 
so  kin'  an'  lovin'  at  me. 

I  notis  a  tall  straight-up  man  watchin'  my  Honey  Chile! 
fum  de  back  flatform  uv  de  train  an'  I  ast  her  why  dil 
straight-up  man  was  lookin'  at  her  so  hard  an'  who  was  he 

"Who  is  he?"  she  say,  an'  laffed,  "Oh!  he's  jes'  a  man.' ' 
I  s'picioned  sumpin'  an'  started  ter  say  dat  he  knew  how  tei 
look  at  folks,  but  I  membered  my  manners  an'  didn'  said 
nothin'.  Den  dat  man  got  hisself  offen  de  back  flatform  u\ 
de  train  an'  comes  up  ter  we-all  an'  lift  offen  his  hat.  "We've 
got  three  minits,  my  dear,"  he  says. 

Den  I  look  at  Miss  Honey  an'  I  knowed  by  sumpiri'  diit 
my  Honey  Child  had  done  gone  an'  got  herself  married  an.3 
I  jes'  thew  my  ole  arms  'round  her  an'  bless  her  an'  bless 
him  an'  dey  run  fuh  de  train.  No  wonder  he  look  at  her 
so  hard  an'  got  two  uv  all  de  eatin's  offen  my  waiter.  Bless 
dey  hearts! 

Dey  come  out  on  de  back  flatform  as  de  train  start  an' 
I  called  ter  'em,  "Don'  you-all  want  me  fuh  ter  come  an' 
cook  fuh  you  all?" 

Miss  Honey  jes'  laffed  an'  say,  "Not  yet,"  but  he  standiri' 
behime  her  wave  a  chicken  leg  at  me  an'  noddin'  his  haicl, 
say,  "Yes!" 


THE  LOTUS  EATERS  * 

By  VIRGINIA  TRACY 

leaves  me  to  starve,"  said  Estella,  cutting  off  a 
leg  of  the  chicken  and  throwing  it  to  the  nearest 
dog.  "Leaves  me  to  starve  in  the  gutter  and  leaves 
Regina,  his  own  flesh  and  blood — look  at  that  child,  Kate, 
look  at  her!  What  sort  of  a  brute  could  desert  a  child  like 
that?  Was  her  mother's  comfort,  yes,  she  was! — leaves 
Regina  without  a  rag  to  her  back."  She  absent-mindedly 
put  a  piece  of  chicken  into  her  mouth  and  leaned  her  elbows 
on  the  table. 

"I  really  don't  know  what  we  shall  do  about  the  rent," 
said  Mrs.  Donnelly.  "When  he  came  for  it  this  morning  he 
told  Barbara  he'd  be  back  this  afternoon,  and  it's  a  hot  day 
for  anybody  to  be  out,  let  alone  a  fat  fellow  like  him.  You 
can't  put  off  the  landlord  himself  like  you  can  an  agent,  any 
way.  I  could  pay  ten  dollars  on  account  next  Saturday 
night.  If  he  won't  take  that,  or  your  alimony  doesn't  come, 
I  don't  know  what  will  become  of  us." 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  either,"  said  Estella.  "It  seems 
such  a  nuisance  to  move.  Speak  for  it  then."  "Woof  I 
Woof  I"  said  Dooley,  the  fatter  of  the  Scotch  terriers.  "I 
thought  we  were  going  to  be  so  happy  here,  too,  when  we  first 
came.  He  seemed  such  a  nice,  unassuming  sort  of  man." 

Tony,  who  was  washing  the  household  linen  in  the  kitchen, 
put  his  head  through  the  doorway.  It  was  rather  a  lordly  little 
black  head  and  belonged  to  a  young  fellow  of  a  slender  mid 
dle  height,  motions  extraordinarily  light  and  free,  and  blue, 
humorous,  inquisitive,  confidential  eyes.  Said  he:  "I  beg 
your  pardon,  Estella,  but  the  big  dishpan — has  it  gone  to 
heaven?" 


*By  permission  of  the  author,  and  the  Century  Company. 

361 


362    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"It's  out  on  the  fire-escape,"  replied  Estella,  "with  gaso 
line  in  it.  I  put  all  the  old  gloves  I  could  find  into  gasoline 
this  morning,  so  that  if  any  of  us  should  happen  to  get  an 
engagement,  they'd  have  clean  gloves  anyway." 

Tony  withdrew.     He  had  not  looked  at  Estella,  but  at 
Barbara,  the  Beauty,  who  sat  in  the  window-sill  and  con 
tinued  to  look  neither  at  him  nor  at  Estella  nor  at  the  rioi: 
of  the  dogs  and  the  chicken-bones  and  Regina  upon  the  un 
carpeted  floor,  but  across  the  shining  roof-tops  to  the  Palis 
ades. 

The  mistress  of  this  Harlem  flat  was  Mrs.  Baker,  Estella. 
Cortelyou  in  stage  life.  Mr.  Baker  was  divorced.  He  was 
a  prosperous  person  and  paid  a  considerable  alimony,  with 
which  he  was  not  always  sufficiently  prompt.  With  Mrs. 
Baker  lived  her  infant  daughter,  Regina  Rosalys,  and  her 
younger  sister,  Barbara  Floyd.  Also  she  had  as  summer 
boarders  Mr.  Anthony  Regnault,  a  young  actor  who  seldom 
happened  to  be  out  of  work,  Mr.  Fred  Donnelly,  not  much 
older,  who  seldom  happened  to  be  in  it,  and  Mrs.  Kate  Don 
nelly,  an  elderly  typist,  who  had  married  a  brother  Don 
nelly,  deceased.  All  the  boarders  paid  far  more  than  their 
board,  when  they  had  it,  and  nothing  at  all  when  they  had 
not.  At  the  present  movement,  they  had  been  some  time 
through  lunch  without  having  as  yet  cleared  away  its  re 
mains,  and  Estella  and  Mrs.  Donnelly,  whose  employer  was 
away  on  his  own  vacation,  had  been  regaling  the  company 
with  accounts  of  the  Russian  coronation,  which  they  read 
from  the  newspapers  that  strewed  the  room.  Fred  Donnelly, 
who  was  busy  pinning  the  edge  of  his  tie  over  a  spot  he  had 
just  discovered  on  his  shirt-front,  gloomily  commented  upon 
Estella's  last  remark:  "I  guess  it'll  be  a  long  enough  day  be 
fore  any  of  us  get  an  engagement!" 

"You  forget  Tony!"  said  his  sister-in-law. 

"I  ain't  ever  let  to,"  Fred  responded  with  some  savagery. 
"I — can't  you  stop  gorging  on  those  papers  a  minute? 
They're  two  months  old." 

"That  makes  'em  all  the  lovelier,"  replied  Estella.  "Tony 
threw  them  off  the  kitchen  shelf  this  morning,  and  I  felt  so 


THE  LOTUS  EATERS  363 

good  to  read  it  all  over  again.  You  feel  sure,  then,  that  it's 
all  true." 

"Tony's  generous  with  his  old  newspapers.  That's  be 
cause  he's  signed  for  a  job.  But.  he  don't  begin  till  No 
vember.  November — Lord!  you  can't  believe  there's  ever 
going  to  be  such  a  month." 

"Oh,  we  may  all  be  working  by  then,"  cried  Estella  in  her 
voice  of  tragic  fire.  "You  can't  tell.  You  don't  suppose 
we're  going  to  go  on  like  this,  do  you?" 

"Not  if  we  don't  pay  the  rent,  we  ain't,"  said  Fred. 
"We'll  have  fifteen  dollars  the  week  after  next,  Barbara  and 
me,  if  we  pose  for  those  kinetoscope  things.  But  we  owe  all 
that  now,  in  little  bills." 

"That  reminds  me,  Tony,"  Estella  called,  "I  wish  you 
could  get  both  the  tablecloths  ironed  by  to-night,  'cause 
you  can't  do  it  to-morrow.  No;  they're  going  to  shut  off  the 
gas  to-night;  we  had  a  notice  from  'em  yesterday." 

"Well,  this  fellow  was  just  right,"  declared  Mrs.  Don 
nelly,  glaring  up  from  her  newspaper;  "this  one  that  refused 
:o  kiss  the  Czarina's  hand.  It's  a  nasty,  silly  thing  to  do. 
They'll  never  catch  me  doing  it." 

"Nor  me,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Tony,  reappearing  with  a 
Ducket  that  brimmed  wet  tableclothes.  He  paused  for  a 
noment  in  the  doorway  and  leaned  there,  exceedingly  com 
fortable  and  cool.  Indeed,  on  this  midsummer  afternoon, 
when  the  unshaded  dining-room  appeared  altogether  hud- 
Iled  and  tousled  and  hot,  there  was  in  the  look  of  this  very 
:ompetent  amateur  laundryman  something  so  tranquil,  so 
liry  and  sylvan,  that  it  might  have  suggested  a  beneficient 
gentleman-dryad  but  for  the  absurd  great  pipe  which  was 
langing  out  of  his  mouth.  "I'll  take  these  up  to  the  roof 
low,  Estella;  I've  just  hung  out  the  smaller  pieces.  We 
:an't  tell  but  that  later  Barbara'll  help  me  take  them  down. 
But  I  do  hope,  Stella  Cortelyou,  that  the  next  flat  we  appro- 
3riate  will  have  a  coal  range.  If  we  are  to  have  no  fire  to 
iron  with  to-morrow,  how  shall  we  cook?" 

"I  suppose  we'll  have  to  go  out  to  our  meals.  I've  got  my 
wedding-ring  yet.  He  can  force  me  to  part  with  that, 


364   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

Tommy  Baker  can,  but  he  can't  force  me  to  let  our  chik 
starve." 

"That  must  be  very  disenchanting  for  Tommy,"  TOD) 
answered.  "But  I  think  I'll  leap  out  with  a  chair  or  two  b<  • 
fore  it  comes  to  our  eating  up  your  wedding-ring,  Estella." 

Regina  Rosalys,  who  was  at  that  moment  recuperating 
from  her  wrestling  matches  with  the  dogs,  said  suddenly: 

"Anny  Bobs  gah  go  ring." 

"No,  no,  darling.  Poor  Auntie  Barbara  hasn't  got  an) 
ring  at  all.  You  lost  Auntie  Barbara's  little  blue  ring  dowr 
the  stationary  washstand,  don't  you  remember?" 

"No,  no,  Anny  Bobs  gah  go  ring."  Regina's  fat  little 
hands  formed  an  oblong  about  the  size  of  a  cucumber.  "Big,'1 
she  persisted,  nodding. 

"She  means  that  Indian  bracelet,"  said  Estella.  Tony 
looked  anxiously  and  a  little  fearfully  at  Barbara,  and  for 
got  to  joke.  At  that  moment  the  door  bell  rang.  Tony 
leaned  back  into  the  kitchen  and  pressed  the  little  electric 
button  which  opened  the  street  door. 

"Oh!"  cried  Estella,  "that's  the  expressman  with  my  money 
now."  She  rose  and  ran  into  the  hall. 

There  was  a  waiting  silence.  Tony  continued  to  lean  on 
the  doorway  and  look  at  the  girl  in  the  window-seat.  She 
had  gray  eyes  of  a  miraculous,  deep  clearness,  but  she  kept 
these  turned  away  in  a  far-off  quiet,  profound  enough  to 
strike  cold  upon  a  suitor's  heart.  Tony  had  to  content  him 
self  with  the  faint  bright  color  in  the  oval  of  her  cheeks;  the 
pale  rose  of  her  faded  and  shrunken  cotton  blouse  stopped  in 
a  little  drawn  circle  at  her  throat;  the  throat  itself  was  very 
white  and  regal  looking  under  the  piled  fairness  of  Barbara's 
brown  hair.  One  hand  dropped,  motionless,  against  her  old 
gray  skirt,  and  Tony  smiled  to  it  wistfully.  It  was  a  mod 
est  smile,  under  a  trick  of  audacity.  Tony  was  three-and- 
twenty,  and  all  women  except  Barbara  had  done  their  best  to 
spoil  him, — except  Barbara,  who  had  remained  silent  the 
summer  through  before  his  love.  By  the  community  be 
fore  which  so  much  of  it  had,  perforce,  to  be  carried  on,  the 
love-making  was  encouragingly  ignored,  but  the  community 
was  beginning  to  get  restless,  because  from  the  lady  it  re- 


THE  LOTUS  EATERS  365 

:eived  no  confidence.  The  summer  was  sunning  itself  away, 
ind  still  Barbara  rested,  whether  or  not  to  be  wooed,  pas 
sive,  idle,  enigmatic,  lovely;  and  still  prayerfully,  and  with 
left  derision,  Tony  continued  publicly  to  woo  her.  Now, 
:hough  he  could  not  catch  her  glance,  his  eyes  spoke  declara 
tions  twenty  times  a  minute,  and  formally  proposed  to  her. 
Fhey  besought,  commanded,  laughed  at  her,  adored  her. 
Suddenly,  when  there  seemed  least  hope,  she  turned  round  and 
ooked  at  him.  It  was  a  very  steadfast,  searching  look,  and 
rony  tingled  and  rejoiced  to  meet  it.  He  lifted  his  head 
lappily,  with  a  singular  pride,  and  at  the  little  motion  the 
;irl  put  her  hand  sharply  to  her  throat  and  turned  away. 

"He's  a  long  time  coming  upstairs,"  said  Fred. 

At  that  moment  Estella  ran  back  into  the  hall  of  the  flat 
ind  closed  the  door  with  the  effect  of  a  subdued  cyclone. 

"It's  not  the  expressman!"  she  called,  in  a  shrieking  whis- 
)er.  "The  top  of  his  head  looks  like  the  milkman,  and  his 
rill's  due."  Tony  laughed  aloud. 

"Tell  him  to  come  again/'  suggested  Kate  Donnelly,  still 
brtified  by  immersion  in  the  coronation  glories. 

"Told  him  that  last  time,"  said  Fred. 

"Oh,  well,  maybe  he  wasn't  coming  here,"  said  Estella, 
istening  a  moment,  and  continued.  "Maybe  it  was  only  the 
anitor,  after  all.  Once  before  the  alimony  didn't  come,  and 
hen  it  turned  out  the  expressman  had  brought  it  two  or 
hree  times,  only  the  downstairs  bell  didn't  ring,  so  to-day 
!  asked  the  janitor  to  ring  the  bell  every  time  he  went  past, 

0  I'd  feel  quite  easy." 

The  upstairs  bell  unkindly  rang. 

"Ssh!"  hissed  Estella;  "pretend  we're  out." 

"Is  he  to  suppose  the  downstairs  door  was  opened  by  a 
pook?"  Tony  whispered. 

"Well,  you  needn't  talk.  You  did  it."  She  came  back  into 
he  dining-room,  and  sat  down  with  infinite  non-rustling 
•recautions.  "I'm  sure  I'd  like  to  pay  him  as  well  as  any- 
>ody.  Indeed,  nobody  has  the  horror  of  debt  I've  got.  I 
remble  with  it  when  I  wake  in  the  night.  It's  born  in  me, 

don't  know  why.    But  I  can't  pay  what  I  haven't  got,  not 

1  I  was  to  coin  my  blood  for  it."    The  bell  rang  again. 


366    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"Well,  he  can  just  tire  himself  out  at  that,"  Estella  added. 
"I  should  think  he'd  know  we'd  have  opened  it  before  if 
we'd  wanted  him." 

Tony's  eyes  overran  with  laughter.  Regina  threw  herself 
into  Barbara's  lap,  and  Barbara  put  her  face  into  the  black 
mop  of  Regina's  curls,  and  began  to  whisper  a  story  to  her.' 

"I  wish  I  was  out  of  the  whole  business,"  muttered  Fred; 
"out  of  the  profession,  I  mean.  I  wish  I  knew  another 
durned  thing  to  do.  I  had  a  chance  to  be  a  dentist  once, 
but  I  was  too  good  for  it  then.  When  that  old  aunt  of  mine 
in  Ireland  dies,  I  bet  I  take  my  share  of  what  she  leaves  and 
buy  an  interest  in  a.  business.  And  when  you're  all  down 
on  your  luck,  you  can  come  to  me,  people,  and  I'll  help  you 
out." 

"My  share  in  that  pneumatic  tire '11  be  worth  thousands 
of  dollars  by  then,"  said  Mrs.  Donnelly,  refolding  her  news 
paper.  "They've  got  a  backer  for  it  now  who's  going  to 
put  it  right  on  the  market.  Will  Knowles  says  there's  a 
fortune  in  it,  and  he's  an  inventor." 

"I  was  thinking  the  other  day  it  would  be  nice  to  invent 
something,"  replied  Estella;  "but  I  never  get  mine  finished, 
somehow." 

The  enemy  without  gave  a  final  knock  and  ring,  and  de 
parted.  He  was  pursued  downstairs  by  the  barks  of  the 
terriers  and  the  shrieks  of  Regina,  who  at  that  moment 
rushed,  all  three,  into  each  other's  arms. 

"Look  here,"  said  Fred;  "are  you  sure  it  wasn't  Mr.  Bates, 
come  for  the  rent?  He  told  Barbara  he'd  be  here  at  three 
o'clock." 

"Mercy!  Look  out  of  the  window,  Barbara,  and  see  who 
it  was."  Barbara  leaned  out  and  down,  watching. 

"Well,  I  vow!"  said  Mrs.  Donnelly.  "Do  you  know  what 
those  Gostioffs,  or  whatever  their  name  is,  have  been  doing? 
The  Czar  said  everybody  could  make  their  crowns  out  of 
silver-gilt,  because  some  of  'em  are  as  poor  as  church  mice, 
and  those  Gostioffs  have  been  over  to  Paris  and  had  theirs 
made  out  of  solid  gold!" 

"Who  told  you?" 


THE  LOTUS  EATERS  367 

"It's  in  the  paper.  And  he's  just  come  of  age,  a  while 
ago,  and  paid  all  his  debts." 

"Seems  rather  an  excessive  person,"  Tony  commented. 

Mrs.  Donnelly  made  a  little  clucking  noise  to  her  news 
paper:  "Tsu!  Tsu! — well,  poor  boy,  he  does  all  he  can." 

"Who?"  demanded  Fred. 

"The  Emperor  of  all  the  Russias,"  answered  Tony,  laugh 
ing  from  under  his  eyelashes  at  Kate.  "Kate's  very  partial 
to  him.  I  sometimes  feel  quite  piqued." 

"Well,  I  don't  care.    He's  a  very  good  man;  he  wants — " 

"They  say,"  remarked  Estella  dreamily,  "that  she's  got 
a  gold  typewriter  set  with  diamonds." 

"It  was  the  milkman,"  announced  Barbara,  drawing  in  her 
head. 

Estella  had  picked  up  an  illustrated  weekly,  and  she  now 
passed  it  with  a  tender  smile  to  Mrs.  Donnelly.  "Wouldn't 
Barbara  look  sweet  fixed  just  the  way  the  Czarina  is?  Those 
pearl  ropes — I'll  bet  they're  yards  long — they're  just  the  sort 
of  thing  that  suits  Barbara." 

Mrs.  Donnelly  gravely  regarded  the  Czarina's  likeness. 
"She  looks  very  handsome,"  she  said.  "I  hope  she'll  be 
happy.  She's  got  a  kind  of  a  sad  look.  I  knew  a  girl  once, 
a  nice,  pretty  girl  as  could  be — she  looked  something  like  our 
Barbara,  too,  only  Barbara's  the  handsomest  of  the  lot — had 
something  that  same  look  at  her  wedding,  and  before  the 
very  first  year  was  out  he  had  run  off  to  Canada  with  a  pot 
of  money — he  was  a  partner  in  a  wholesale  bicycle  busi 
ness — and  another  woman,  and  she,  poor  thing,  had  to  take 
in  boarders." 

Estella  sat  up,  clutched  her  floating  yellow  dressing-sack 
about  her  neck,  and  with  the  other  hand  shoved  back  the 
toppling  mass  of  her  black  hair.  "Well!"  she  cried,  "I'd 
like  to  know  what  you  mean  by  that,  Kate  Donnelly!  I 
didn't  think  I  should  ever  be  insulted  at  my  own  lunch- 
table  by  people  talking  as  if  it  were  a  disgrace  to  take 
boarders !  You  ought  to  honor  me  for  it,  or  any  other  honest 
way  of  making  my  living.  I've  got  my  fatherless  child  to 
support,  and  I'm  proud  of  it,  and  as  God  is  my  witness,  I 
think  a  woman  can  be  a  lady,  no  matter  how  little  money 


368   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

she  has.  And  if  you  mean  to  insinuate  anything  against 
Tom  Baker,  I  can  tell  you  that  whatever  my  troubles  with 
my  husband  may  have  been — and  I  think  you  might  have 
had  more  consideration  for  Regina  than  to  mention  a  woman 
— there  never  was  a  breath  against  his  honesty,  and  he  never 
quarrelled  with  but  one  of  his  employers  in  his  life,  that 
would  bring  men  he  knew  home,  drunk,  to  sleep  in  the  office, 
and  that  diamond  bracelet  I  gave  him  to  get  the  doctor's 
bill  on  once  when  he  was  out  of  work,  he  went  and  got  out 
and  gave  it  back  to  me  as  soon  as  I  got  my  divorce!" 

There  was  a  glass  pitcher  full  of  lemonade  on  the  table. 
Estella  helped  herself  to  a  long  drink,  and  added:  "And 
even  so,  I  shouldn't  call  you  exactly  boarders,  anyway." 

Mrs.  Donnelly  arose  in  trembling  majesty  and  took  her 
hat  off  the  mantelpiece.  "I'll  send  you  my  address,  Estella 
Baker,"  she  said,  "as  soon  as  I  get  one.  And  you  can 
send  your  bill  in  when  you  like.  I  wouldn't  speak  to  a  dog 
as  you've  spoken  to  me,  and  I  wouldn't  take  it  from  you  if 
you  were  the  Queen  of  England.  And  as  for  calling  us 
boarders,  I  should  think  you  wouldn't,  with  Tony  working 
like  a  black  slave,  and  Fred  putting  off  the  butcher,  and  me 
paying  regular  every  Saturday.  I  wouldn't  have  stayed  here 
to  have  my  ears  deafened  the  way  you  screech,  Estella  Baker, 
for  anybody  but  Tony,  that  was  the  sweetest  child  I  ever 
saw  when  I  used  to  go  on  as  extra  in  the  Amazon  marches 
at  his  father's  theatre,  before  that  sneaking  hound  of  a 
Gillespie  got  it  away  from  him — though  I've  worked  hard 
here  to  help  you,  and  glad  to  do  it,  as  you  well  know.  I  hope, 
when  I'm  gone — " 

"Before  you  go,  Kate,  dear,"  said  Tony,  putting  his  pipe 
on  the  mantelpiece,  "we'd  better  clear  off  the  table,  or  I 
fear  Barbara  will  be  f6rced  to  work." 

Barbara  rose  hurriedly,  but  like  a  creature  moving  in  a 
sleep,  and  Mrs.  Donnelly  snatched  up  a  plate  with  one 
hand,  and  with  the  other  pushed  the  young  girl  back  into 
the  window-seat.  "Stay  where  you  are,"  said  she,  and  strode 
majestically  into  the  kitchen.  Her  brother-in-law,  who  had 
not  bestowed  so  much  as  a  glance  upon  the  previous  debate, 
now  lifted  a  newspaper  in  his  turn.  "There's  a  cut  of  the 


THE  LOTUS  EATERS  369 

Felix  house,"  he  said.  "Down  below,  you  know,  on  River 
side  Drive,  the  white  stone  place.  Good  print,  isn't  it?  I 
wish  I'd  gone  in  for  photography  when  I  had  that  chance 
three  years  ago." 

"I  never  thought  I'd  much  care  about  having  that  house," 
said  Estella.  "The  windows  come  so  low  down,  I'd  always 
be  afraid  Regina  would  fall  out.  Still,  of  course,  you  could 
put  wires  across  them." 

"Forgot  the  tablecloths."  cried  Tony,  running  in  and 
snatching  up  the  bucket.  "None  of  you  thought  of  them,  of 
course — loafers !  If  I  have  a  sunstroke  on  the  roof,  say  I 
died  true."  Tony  peered  into  the  pitcher  of  lemonade  as  he 
passed  it.  "Oof!  Little  drops  of  lemon.  Nothing  more 
spirited  for  the  laborer,  the  poor  laborer,  Mrs.  Tommy?" 
At  the  hall  door — "I  will  return  to  you,  Barbara,"  he  said 
to  the  back  of  that  young  lady's  head,  and  vanished. 

"Tony's  gone  pok?"  asked  Regina. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Estella,  "if  Tony's  written  those  words 
for  Barbara  to  sing  Sunday  night." 

"Anny  Bobs  ta  Rina  pok?"  Regina  persisted. 

"No,  no,"  said  Estella,  "Auntie  Barbara  can't  take  Regina 
to  the  park  now;  it's  too  hot." 

"Too  hot?" 

"Yes;  too  hot.    Make  Auntie  sick.    Poor  Auntie." 

"Poo  Anny;  Anny  Bobs  ta  Rina  pok?" 

"No;  now,  Regina,  you're  naughty." 

Regina  puffed  out  an  under-lip  and  nodded:  "Rina  awn 
do  finey  aws,"  she  said  plaintively. 

"Oh,  Regina,  why  don't  you  learn  to  talk  plainer?  Oo 
bid  dirl,  ess  oo  is  bid  dirl!  You  mostly  know  what  she 
says,  Fred." 

"She  said,  'Regina  wants  to  go  on  the  flying  horses.'  r 

"Oh,  darling,  mamma  hasn't  any  money  for  that — no, 
indeed,  Barbara,  car- fare  and  everything!  You  can  go  on 
the  flying  horses  when  mamma  gets  an  engagement.  Here — 
here's  a  nickel.  You  can  play  with  that." 

Regina  turned  the  nickel  over  and  over  in  the  creases  of 
her  warm  little  hand,  and  Fred  returned  to  his  former  state- 


370    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

ment — "I  guess  it'll  be  a  long  day  before  any  of  us  get  an 
engagement." 

"I'll  bet  you  anything  you  like,"  cried  Estella,  "that  I'll 
be  starring  in  my  own  play  before  the  year's  out.  That 
play's  bound  to  succeed,  because  it  speaks  right  to  people's 
hearts.  I  wrote  every  word  of  it  out  of  my  own  soul.  There 
isn't  a  line  in  it  without  a  throb,  and  yet  the  comedy  interest's 
good,  too.  I  think  Barbara'll  be  quite  sweet  in  that.  She's 
a  little  tall  for  comedy,  but  then — .  You  know  Dick  Tanne- 
hill.  He  says  it's  the  greatest  play  that's  been  written  in 
America  since  'The  Banker's  Daughter.'  " 

Mrs.  Donnelly,  who  had  been  going  to  and  from  the 
kitchen  with  the  dishes,  now  swept  away  the  tablecloth,  and 
Estella,  still  clutching  the  lemonade,  and  waving  the  butter- 
knife,  leaned  back  to  give  her  free  play.  She  concluded, 
"He  asked  me  why  I  didn't  let  Olga  Nethersole  have  it." 

"Well,  dearie,"  said  Mrs.  Donnelly,  "Why  don't  you? 
I'm  sure  you  deserve  a  little  luck." 

"Well,"  said  Estella,  "I  guess  not.  Nobody'll  ever  play 
that  part  but  me.  There's  plenty  of  managers  would  be 
glad  to  take  the  play,  and  put  their  own  old  stars  into  it; 
night  and  day  I'm  afraid  some  one  will  steal  my  ideas.  If 
I  could  only  get  a  good  part  in  New  York  and  show  people 
just  once  what  I  could  do,  there'd  be  plenty  of  managers 
ready  to  back  me  in  my  play  afterward!" 

Fred  yawned.  "Stella,"  said  he,  "when  you  do  get  an  en 
gagement,  you  quarrel  with  the  stage-manager  and  come 
home." 

Estella  planted  her  elbows  on  the  table.  "That's  because 
they've  got  such  old  fuss-budgets  of  stage  managers.  I 
guess  after  I've  sat  up  all  night  wearing  myself  to  pieces 
studying  my  art  I'm  not  going  to  be  dictated  to  by  those 
ignorant  things.  It  was  mean  of  that  old  Dawkins,  though, 
to  fight  with  me  when  I'd  had  my  pink  crepe  dress  made  for 
their  old  piece,  and  I  hadn't  even  got  it  paid  for  yet.  Wasn't 
that  a  sweet  dress,  Kate?  I  wore  my  real  coral  and  gold 
belt  with  it,  that  Tommy  gave  me  while  we  were  married. 
He  always  said  he  did  like  me  to  look  nice,  Tommy  did. 
I've  got  plenty  of  clothes  to  take  an  engagement,  if  I  could 


THE  LOTUS  EATERS  371 

only  get  one.  I  wish  the  dogs  hadn't  broken  Whopper,  and 
I'd  ask  her  when  we  any  of  us  were  going  to  get  anything." 

"We  always  ask  her  that,  and  she  always  lies.  We'd 
better  ask  her  when  the  alimony's  coming." 

Estella  looked  at  the  pieces  of  the  broken  planchette  which 
were  scattered  over  the  floor.  "They  looked  so  cunning 
breaking  it  up — and  Tony  would  name  her  that,"  she  added, 
with  apparent  irrelevance.  "Hand  me  the  cards,  Fred,  and 
let  me  see  if  I  can  see  anything." 

As  she  shuffled  the  pack,  her  mind  went  back  to  the  pink 
crepe. 

"If  she  likes  to  fix  it  over,  I'll  let  Barbara  wear  that  dress 
to  Helen  Graham's  Sunday  night,  and  I  can  take  her  blue 
waist;  you  know,  Kate,  that  one  you  made  out  of  the  old 
pair  of  sleeves." 

She  looked  cordially  at  Barbara,  but  the  girl  did  not 
answer  nor  turn  her  head. 

"She's  dreaming,"  said  Fred.  "Love's  young  dream, 
Barbara?  Estella,  do  you  see  a  dark  man?" 

"Let  her  be,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Donnelly;  "maybe  she  is  really 
thinking  about  Tony." 

"You  make  me  tired,  Kate!"  said  the  fraternal  Fred. 
"You  bet  Tony  can  do  his  own  love-making.  You  bet  he 
can  look  after  himself.  I  wonder,"  he  added  in  a  half- 
voice,  "if  she  says  things  to  him,  though,  when  they're  alone. 
He  keeps  on  so." 

"You  never  can  tell,"  Estella  sighed. 

"She  might  be  very  glad  to  have  the  chance  of  him!" 
Mrs.  Donnelly  almost  cried  aloud. 

"I  guess  my  sister  doesn't  need  to  be  glad  of  anybody, 
Kate  Donnelly,  and  he's  very  unsettled  and  extravagant; 
I've  always  heard  so." 

"Oh,  rot!"  said  Fred,  getting  in  ahead  of  his  sister-in-law. 
"What  of  it?  He's  only  a  boy,  and  most  of  the  year  he's 
more  money  than  he  knows  what  to  do  with.  I  don't  know 
why  it  should  be  worse  for  him  to  throw  gold  dollars  around 
than  for  anybody  else  to  do  it." 

"Slander  loves  a  shining  mark,"  said  Mrs.  Donnelly 
sententiously. 


372    THE  GREAT  MODERN^  AMERICANA  STORIES 

Fred  laughed.  "Well,  there's  nothing  so  very  shining 
about  Tony,  except  a  first-class  job  with  the  great  Engle 
in  the  fall.  But,  of  course,  he's  lucky  to  have  that,  at  his 
age ;  and  I  daresay  it's  his  luck  and  his  good  looks  and  those 
kid  ways  of  his  starts  those  notions.  He's  really  a  corking 
fellow,  Tony  is,  and  straight,  as  far  as  I  know.  But  if  he 
buys  a  girl  a  pair  of  gloves — and  I  don't  say  he  doesn't  like 
a  pretty  girl — there's  as  much  cackle  as  if  another  man  had 
bought  her  Fifth  Avenue.  And  he's  too  easy-tempered;  he 
lets  stories  get  around  about  him,  things  that  matter.  Look 
at  that  old  gander  last  week  at  Reilly's — said  it  was  Mrs. 
Rexal  who  got  him  that  part  with  Rexal,  and — you  know 
what  people  say." 

"Oh!"  said  Barbara,  "it's  all  cowardly.  It's  a  lie." 
("Why,  she's  awake  after  all,"  laughed  Fred.)  She  turned 
in  upon  them  from  the  window,  and  her  live  voice  broke 
into  the  room  with  its  curious,  little  throaty  richness.  "I — 
I  don't  deceive  myself  about  Tony.  I  daresay  he's  wild,  I 
daresay  he's  unreliable,  but  we  must  all  know  that  he  was 
never — base."  Her  face  flushed  and  paled,  her  hands 
clinched  in  her  lap.  "We're  unsteady  and  extravagant  our 
selves,  Estella,  and  what  should  we  have  done  this  summer, 
who  would  have  given  us  any  pleasure,  who  would  have 
helped  us,  who  would  have  worked  for  us,  what  should  we 
have  done  here,  without  Tony?  I  remember  all  the  time, 
even  if  we're  only  a  caprice  of  his,  even  if  he  doesn't  mean  a 
word  he  says,  we  are  his  debtors  a  thousand,  thousand  times !" 

The  hall  door  opened,  and  they  heard  Tony  banging  the 
bucket  and  whistling  "My  girl's  a  high-born  lady"  as  he 
went  into  his  own  room. 

"My  dear!  my  dear!"  Estella  warned  her. 

"That's  right,  Barbara,"  said  Fred.  "I  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  didn't  think  you  had  so  much  sense.  There's  nothing  the 
matter  with  Tony  except  a  first-class  appetite  for  being 
happy.  Look  at  him  all  this  summer — till  his  next  season's 
manager  puts  a  stop  to  it — goes  and  makes  a  darned  jockey 
of  himself,  for  ten  dollars  a  week,  riding  their  plug  steeple 
chasers  in  a  backwoods  melodrama.  Does  anybody  say  a 
word  for  him  about  that?  Why,  no.  You'd  think  they  all 


THE  LOTUS  EATERS  373 

did  it!  But  he  went  to  dinner  at  the  Waldorf  last  night 
with  a  fellow  I  know  that  had  made  some  money  at  Brighton, 
and  a  couple  of  girls,  and  I'll  bet  you  everybody  on  Broad 
way's  talking  about  it." 

"At  the  Waldorf?  Is  that  where  he  was?"  cried  Barbara. 
"Last  night  1"  She  leaned  forward  and  stared  at  Fred  in 
tently.  Something  in  her  accent  recalled  to  the  assemblage 
their  own  last  night's  dinner;  the  little,  hot,  untidy  dining- 
room,  and  the  scramble  in  getting  the  dishes  washed  up,  and 
the  fact  that  the  ice  had  given  out.  Only  Estella  remembered 
for  the  first  time  that  Barbara  had  dressed  her  hair  elabo 
rately  yesterday  afternoon,  and  had  tried  to  press  out  her 
white  lace  waist,  and  had  scorched  it.  She  remembered  in 
the  same  flash  that  the  morning  before,  Tony  had  praised  the 
stately  habit  of  dressing  for  dinner.  She  pushed  away  the 
cards,  and  in  her  turn  looked  at  Barbara,  as  Barbara  was 
looking  at  Fred. 

"Was  that  where  he  was?"  said  the  girl  again. 

"I'm  sure  he  had  every  right  to  be!"  cried  Kate. 

"I'm  sure  we  should  be  the  last  to  question  that  right," 
Barbara  said. 

"  'Feathered  like  a  peacock,  just  as  gay,' "  sang  Tony's 
whistle,  clipped  suddenly  by  the  sound  of  splashing  water. 

"That  boy's  got  his  head  under  the  faucet  again!"  ex 
claimed  Mrs.  Donnelly.  "He'll  give  himself  neuralgia." 

"Why,  Barbara!"  Estella  cried;  "yesterday  was — " 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  moved  her  hands  helplessly  in  her  lap,  "I 
was  twenty  yesterday." 

"Oh,  dearie!     I'm  so  sorry!     I  never  thought  of  it." 

"Tony  never  knew  of  it,"  said  Kate. 

"Why,  no,"  Barbara  replied;  "why  should  he?" 

"Here  he  comes  now,"  said  Fred. 

He  came  in  as  radiant  with  idleness  as  he  had  lately  been 
with  work,  and  very  fresh  from  his  encounter  with  the 
faucet,  whose  drops  were  still  shining,  bright  and  cold,  in 
his  black  hair.  There  was  what  Estella  called  a  divan  at  one 
side  of  the  room.  Tony  composed  himself  upon,  its  cushions 
with  a  fan  and  a  glass  of  lemonade  and  lounged  there, 
staring  at  the  ceiling  like  a  contented  child.  He  found  con- 


374   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

siderable  diversion  in  teaching  himself  to  drink  without 
changing  his  attitude  and,  while  he  was  acquiring  this  art, 
the  talk  tried  to  jerk  itself  past  his  interruption.  Every 
body  had  been  a  little  startled  by  Barbara's  outbreak,  every 
body  felt  that  Fred  would  better  have  kept  his  knowledge 
to  himself,  and  a  little  uneasy  bewilderment,  as  at  a 
treachery  to  Tony,  shadowed  more  lively  interests  and  quieted 
the  loud  talk.  They  looked  rather  gravely  at  the  profile  view 
which  was  once  more  accorded  them  of  Barbara's  head. 

"What's  the  matter,  Estella?"  asked  Tony,  glancing  at 
the  newspapers.  "Aren't  there  any  murders?"  At  the  con 
tinued  silence  he  lifted  his  head.  "Hello  1  What's  the 
scandal?" 

"You  are!"  said  Estella.  "The  idea  of  you  being  around 
here,  anyhow,  and  me  with  a  sister  that's  just  twenty!" 

"There  has  to  be  somebody  to  watch  Fred,"  said  Tony. 

"It's  Fred's  been  giving  you  away.  Oh,  he  didn't  mean 
to!  But  he  says  you  throw  your  money  around." 

"He  wants  to  show  you  what  a  beautiful  nature  I  have," 
said  the  accused.  He  looked  lovingly  at  Fred,  because  he 
had  black  murder  in  his  heart.  He  looked  with  anxious 
stealth  at  Barbara,  but  Barbara  seemed  not  to  notice. 

"He  says  people  say  things  about  you,"  Estella  continued. 

"Slander  loves  a  shining  mark,"  repeated  Mrs.  Donnelly , 
with  solemn  emphasis. 

"Nice  Kate!"  said  Tony.  He  went  and  sat  down  on  the 
floor  by  her  chair,  and  stroked  her  hand.  "Good  Kate! 
Pretty  Kate!" 

"I'm  sure,"  continued  Mrs.  Donnelly,  pretending  to  push 
him  off,  "nobody  could  be  a  better  boy  around  the  house  than 
he  is.  Could  they,  now  could  they?  I  bet  you'd  all  want 
him  back,  fast  enough,  if  he  went  away!  I've  known  him 
since  he  was  no  bigger  than  that,"  measuring  about  the  height 
of  a  footstool,  "and  never  saw  a  cross  word  come  out  of  his 
mouth,  and  I  can  tell  you,  if  this  never  having  a  cent  is  hard 
on  us,  he's  had  more  money  to  throw  away  when  he  was  a 
child  on  a  rocking-horse  than  would  pay  this  miserable  old 
rent  time  and  again,  and  not  a  complaint  out  of  him." 


THE  LOTUS  EATERS  375 

"Good  Tony!"  said  that  gentleman.  Ho  added  in  a  tone 
of  profound  conviction,  "Noble  Tony!" 

Estella  studied  him  with  her  chin  in  her  hand. 
"Yes,"  she  said,  "you're  a  very  sweet  boy.     But — you're 
Irish." 

"I  once  had  a  father,  Mrs.  Baker,  and  he  was  French." 
"Well,  goodness,  that  only  makes  it  worse!" 
"Oh,  dear!"  said  Tony  drowsily,  "where  French  and  Irish 
meet,  and  make  a  mixture  that  is  not  discreet.     That's  for 
you,  Barbara,  who  love  the  poets!"    He  opened  his  eyes  and 
stared  sadly  at  his  hostess.     "It's  inelegant  to  display  such 
a  prejudice  against  the  foreign,  dear  Estella." 

"I  hope  you've  written  those  new  verses  to  Gus  Kevins' 
song,  since  you're  so  smart;  Barbara  won't  have  time  to  learn 
them  Sunday  night,  Tony  Regnault,  if  you've  put  them  off 
again,  and  she  won't  sing  the  old  ones.  Mr.  Nevins's  going 
to  be  there  to  hear  her,  Sunday,  and  he's  going  to  sing  him 
self." 

"Dear  me,  how  unnecessary  of  him!"  said  Tony.  He 
went  back  to  the  couch  where  his  banjo  lay,  and  began  to 
touch  an  air  upon  it  as  he  spoke  the  lines.  Certainly,  he 
looked  at  Barbara. 

The  sleeping  princess  quiet  lay 
And  dreamed  the  empty  years  away, 

Her  love  delayed; 

And  princes  came  and  princes  went, 
And  mighty  kings  magnificent 
As  they  above  her  beauty  bent 
Were  all  afraid,  afraid. 

And  no  man  knew  what  word  would  wake, 
Nor  for  what  fortune's  golden  sake, 

Or  deed  of  love, 

That  shining  princess  would  arise, 
Unveil  the  kindness  of  her  eyes, 
And  stretch  the  hand  that  he  would  prize 

All  worlds  above,  above. 

A  beggar  at  the  palace  gate 

Had  a  light  heart  to  tempt  his  fate 

And  entered  in ; 

He  wished  no  other  joy  but  this, 
And  this  for  death  he  would  not  miss; 
He  touched  her  sweet  mouth  with  a  kiss  — 

She  waked  for  him,  for  him! 


376    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"Oh!"  cried  Mrs.  Donnelly,  "isn't  that  lovely!" 

"That  last  line  doesn't  rhyme,  Tony,"  said  Estella,  with 
severity. 

"Will  you  sing  it,  Barbara?"  Tony  asked. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  "It's  very  charming.  You  were 
very  kind  to  write  it.  But  I  don't  think  I  shall  sing  it.  I 
don't  think  I  shall  sing  at  all." 

Said  Tony:  "That  pink  thing  you  have  on  is  very  becom 
ing  to  you,  my  own." 

"You  musn't  call  Barbara  that,  Tony!"  cried  Estella. 
"It  doesn't  sound  well.  I  can't  have  it." 

"Not  even  when  it  isn't  true?"  Tony  pleaded.  "Not  even 
to  please  Barbara?  If  you'll  move  over  a  little,  Barbara, 
I'll  sit  by  you  a  minute."  He  secured  to  himself  a  part  of 
the  window  seat,  and  remained  there,  swinging  his  heels 
and  playing  "Daisy"  on  the  banjo.  Barbara's  slim  young 
stateliness,  aided  by  her  trailing  skirts,  made  her  look  almost 
as  tall  as  he,  and  far  more  resolute.  She  seemed  to  him, 
as  he  studied  her  out  of  the  corner  of  an  eye,  to  be  very 
pale  and  very  tragically  sweet. 

"I'm  glad,  Estella,"  he  said,  "that  you  are  beginning  to 
awaken  to  a  sense  of  your  responsibilities  about  us.  We  shall 
be  almost  grown  up  in  a  minute.  'These  pretty  babes  went 
hand  in  hand!' — you  remember  what  happened  to  their 
wicked  guardian,  Mrs.  Baker,  after  the  robin-redbreasts  had 
covered  them  with  leaves?  I  am  afraid  Barbara  would  be 
rather  long  for  robin-redbreasts;  she  would  keep  them  busy." 

Estella  smiled  disdainfully.  "You  look  like  a  yard  of 
pump-water,  the  both  of  you,"  said  she. 

"The  each  of  us,  Estella.  And  it's  still  incorrect  to  be 
cross  with  my  physique — Napoleon  was  once  slender.  Bar 
bara's,  to  be  sure,"  lifting  Barbara's  lovely  wrist  between  his 
thumb  and  finger,  and  critically  regarding  it — "Barbara's, 
to  be  sure,  is  no  great  shakes." 

She  did  not  smile,  she  did  not  even  withdraw  her  hand. 
Tony  laid  it  carefully  in  her  lap.  "Cheer  up,  Anny  Bobs!" 
he  whispered. 

At  this  moment  the  entire  apartment  was  filled  with  the 


THE  LOTUS  EATERS  377 

roar  of  Regina's  rage.  "Mahmu  a  my  nicky-Mahmu  a  my 
nicky." 

"What?"  said  everyone;  "what  is  it?" 

"Mahmu  a  my  nicky!     A  my  nicky!     Bah  Mahmu!" 

Fred  was  stooping  over  Regina.  "Mohammed  ate  my 
nickel,"  he  translated.  Mohammed  was  the  older  terrier. 

"A  my  nicky,"  assented  Regina. 

"Ate  her  nickel ?  Heavens,  swallowed  it  ?  It'll  kill  him !" 
Estella  fell  on  her  knees  and  glared  down  the  throat  of 
Mohammed,  who  wagged  his  tail  feebly.  "Bah  Mahmu!" 
cried  Regina,  beating  the  air  and  howling  lustily.  "A  my 
nicky!  Mahmu  a  my  nicky!" 

"Do  you  think  it'll  kill  him?"  persisted  Estella;  "was 
Stella's  old  boy?  Did  want  doctor?" 

"Wa  my  nicky!"  entreated  Regina. 

"It  seems  to  me  extremely  forehanded  of  him,"  said  Tony 
to  Regina.  "You  know  you  nearly  ate  it  yourself." 

Regina  stopped  crying  and  stared  at  him.  She  began 
slowly  to  smile  and  dimple,  and  presently  extended  a  hand. 
"Nicky,"  said  she. 

Tony  laid  a  copper  on  her  palm.  "Penny,"  he  said;  "not 
nicky.  Nough." 

Regina  went  over  to  Estella  and  pulled  her  arm.  "Mah- 
ma,  nicky." 

Estella  closed  Mohammed's  mouth  with  her  fingers  and 
kissed  his  nose.  "Him  eat  nickels?"  she  inquired.  "No,  I 
haven't  got  another  nickel  for  you,  Regina,  I  haven't  got — 
Oh,  don't  cry.  Here,  you  can  have  my  pearl  heart.  And 
here,"  reaching  for  a  clean  napkin  and  a  blue  pencil  from 
a  crowded  trunk-lid  at  her  back,  "we'll  make  rag-dolly,  shall 
we?" 

Tony  leaped  upon  her,  and  wrenched  the  napkin  from  her 
grasp.  "I  would  never  wish  to  interfere  with  any  of  your 
little  diversions,  Estella,"  said  he,  returning  in  triumph  to 
his  seat,  "but  it  is  I  who  wash  the  linen." 

"Oh,  Lord,  oh,  Lord,  oh,  Lord!"  yawned  Fred.  "What  a 
deadly  drag  it  is!  I  wonder  shall  I  ever  work  again?" 

"I  wonder,"  said  Estella,  "why  it's  always  us  who  can't  get 
parts?  We  can  all  act." 


378    THE  GREAT  MODERN,  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"Well,"  said  Fred,  "we  could  if  we  were  let.  But  the 
question  now  is — Mr.  Bates  told  Barbara  he'd  be  here,  after 
that  blamed  rent,  at  three  o'clock,  and  it's  about  that  now; 
what  are  we  going  to  tell  him?" 

"If  I  could  only  get  a  backer  for  my  play — "  began 
Estella.  "Oh,  I  do  wish  you'd  stop  fooling  with  that  banjo, 
Tony,  you  put  me  out  so!" 

"Say,  look  here,  Tony!"  cried  Fred,  "since  you've  got  a 
job  coming  to  you — I  know  it  isn't  the  proper  thing,  but — 
couldn't  you  get  something  in  advance  from  your  manage 
ment?" 

"Oh!"  cried  Mrs.  Donnelly,  "and  start  out  in  debt  and  be 
all  the  season  getting  even!" 

Tony  looked  hopefully  at  Barbara,  but  Barbara  positively 
frowned. 

"Unh-unh!"  said  Tony,  shaking  his  head  at  Fred. 
"Nev-er  bor-row  from  the  man-age-ment.  If — you — do — 
you'll — never  save  a  cent" — he  struck  a  discreet  tinkle  from 
the  banjo,  and  added:  "In — the — mean-time,  who  will  pay 
the  rent?" 

Without  turning  her  head  round  to  the  company,  Barbara 
said;  "I  daresay  we  shan't  have  to  pay  the  rent  at  all,  if  I 
marry  Mr.  Bates." 

They  were  too  surprised  to  speak,  but  as  they  gradually 
recovered  their  breath  they  turned  and  stared  at  her;  all 
but  Tony,  who  went  on  touching  the  banjo  and  looked  at  it 
carefully.  Estella  leaned  forward  and  knocked  on  the  table 
with  the  handle  of  the  butter-knife. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  she  said. 

Barbara  put  up  one  hand  and  smoothed  her  back  hair  with 
deliberate  fingers.  "When  I  went  into  the  hall  this  morning 
to  see  if  I  couldn't  inveigle  him  to  go  away" — Tony  lifted  his 
head  quickly  and  angrily,  and  frowned  from  Barbara  to 
Estella — "as  I  was  asked  to  do,"  Barbara  continued,  "he 
asked  me  if  I  would  marry  him.  Or  rather  he  asked  me  to 
think  about  it.  He's  coming  back  at  three  to — to  help  us 
think  about  it.  He  wants  to  speak  to  you,  Estella." 

"Well,  I'm  not  going  to  have  anything  to  do  with  it!" 
Estella  cried.  "And  you  needn't  frown  at  me,  Tony  Reg- 


THE  LOTUS  EATERS  379 

nault,  for  I  was  taking  the  curling-irons  out  of  the  gas- 
range  that  very  minute,  or  I  would  have  gone  out  to  him 
myself.  Nobody  shall  ever  say  I  forced  her  into  it.  I 
wouldn't  wreck  the  life  of  my  own  sister,  not  if  he  was  to 
pay  me  for  it  in  diamonds!  But  God  knows,  Tony,  what's 
to  become  of  her,  the  way  things  are;  for  even  if  ever  she 
can  make  up  her  mind  and  marry  you,  you're  all  alike,  you 
actors;  I  wouldn't  trust  a  girl's  heart  to  the  best  of  you, 
though  it's  true  Jim  Folso  did  take  care  of  his  mother  till 
the  day  she  died — I  know  that  myself — sent  her  ten  dollars 
a  week  year  out  and  in;  he's  had  to  borrow  it  from  Tommy, 
many  a  time.  No,  sir,  she'll  have  to  decide  it  for  her  own 
self,  Barbara  will." 

And  at  this  moment,  as  though  by  special  arrangement 
with  a  dramatic  deity,  there  was  a  ring  at  the  front  door. 

"It  needn't  be  he,  you  know,"  said  Estella,  confronting  a 
a  circle  of  stricken  faces. 

But  it  was  he.  Fred  went  to  the  door,  and  ushered  in  a 
large,  plump,  blond  gentleman  in  the  elder  middle  years. 
He  had  his  coat  on  his  arm  and  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  he 
was  mopping  his  face  and  forehead  with  a  huge  clean 
handkerchief. 

"Good-day,  all,"  said  he.  "No,  don't  trouble  yourself 
for  me,  ma'am,"  to  Estella,  who  had  risen,  mute  and  regal, 
and  was  schooling  herself  to  the  manner  of  a  dowager  em 
press.  He  accepted  a  chair,  however,  and  looked  around 
with  simple  confidence  upon  the  company.  "It  is  hot !  When 
you  come  to  my  time  of  life,  you  feel  the  stairs." 

"You'll  have  a  glass  of  lemonade,  Mr.  Bates,"  said  Tony. 
He  had  brought  a  glassful  and  his  own  fan  to  the  landlord, 
and  the  two  men  looked  at  each  other  as  the  glass  changed 
hands. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Bates,  "I  don't  object." 

An  embarrassed  silence  followed  these  civilities.  Tony 
had  cuddled  on  to  the  couch  again  with  his  inevitable  banjo, 
and  the  terriers  had  come  forward  and  were  sniffing  at  Mr. 
Bates's  legs.  Dooley  drew  back  suddenly  and  showed  his 
teeth ;  Mohammed  instantly  broke  into  a  volley  of  shrill  yelps. 

"Knows  I'm  the  landlord,"  tactfully  remarked  Mr.  Bates, 


380   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

setting  down  his  glass  and  smiling  jovially  around.  He 
snapped  his  fingers  at  Dooley,  "Nice  boy,  good  fellow." 
The  dogs  thrust  their  bodies  back  and  their  heads  forward 
and  continued  to  grumble  and  to  growl.  "Well,  I  guess  from 
what  Miss  Barbara  told  me  this  morning,  you  didn't  want 
to  see  me  to-day." 

"I'll  be  frank  with  you,  Mr.  Bates,"  said  Estella.  "My 
allowance  hasn't  come  yet.  God  is  my  witness,  I  expected 
it  the  day  before  yesterday.  Though  why  I  should  expect 
it  from  a  man  that  forsakes  his  own  child,  and  that  I  never 
would  have  married  if  I  hadn't  been  infatuated  with  him — 
a  girl's  infatuation,  Mr.  Bates,  you  know  what  that  is — I 
don't  know.  But  I  was  so  sure  it  would  come  to-day,  while 
that  lace  sale  was  on  at  Siegel  &  Cooper's  I  thought  of  dress 
ing  to  be  ready  right  after  lunch — didn't  I,  Barbara  ?  But  it 
hasn't  come.  I'm  sure  you're  the  last  man,  Mr.  Bates,  that 
would  want  me  to  take  the  bread  out  of  my  child's  mouth." 

"Must  be  a  pretty  mean  man,"  said  Mr.  Bates;  "won't 
send  money  to  keep  his  own  little  girl.  But  you  know,  Mrs. 
Baker,  I  know  people  talk,  especially  the  Irish,  but  owners 
have  to  make  their  property  pay,  someways." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Estella,  "after  all,  this  isn't  a  flat  you 
could  really  expect  much  rent  for.  If  I'd  had  my  money 
this  month,  there's  a  lot  of  things  I'd  have  spoken  to  you 
about.  We  haven't  any  awnings,  for  one  thing,  and  it  makes 
the  place  like  a  bake-oven,  and  it  makes  it  look  like  a  tene 
ment;  though,  for  that  matter,  there  isn't  a  tenement  but  what 
has  awnings.  And  that  woman  in  the  flat  over  us,  you'll  have 
to  speak  to  her.  She  says  insulting  things  about  my  dogs, 
down  the  airshaft.  Yes,  she  does;  she  means  to  insult  me, 
because  I  told  her  she  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  let  her  parrot 
use  such  language.  I  couldn't  let  Regina  listen  to  it,  Mr. 
Bates,  indeed  I  couldn't.  And  the  storeroom  leaks,  or  a 
pipe's  burst  in  it,  or  something,  and  I  shan't  pay  my  rent  at 
all  if  my  Saratoga  trunk  is  damaged,  for  there's  a  lot  of 
wardrobe  in  it,  and  things  no  money  could  replace.  My  white 
satin — I  only  wore  it  two  weeks — is  in  there,  and  my  hus 
band's  miniature's  in  that  trunk.  I  shouldn't  like  to  see  that 
damaged." 


THE  LOTUS  EATERS  381 

"Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Bates,  heartlessly  putting  the 
miniature  of  Mr.  Baker  to  one  side:  "I  guess  you  know  it 
isn't  altogether  about  the  rent  I  came.  I  guess  maybe  Miss 
Barbara's  told  you  about  what  I  said  to  her  this  morning. 
No,  ma'am,  no,  gent'men,  don't  go.  I  know  it's  not  the  usual 
thing,  but  you've  always  seemed  sort  of  like  a  family  here, 
and  I  know  you'll  all  talk  about  it  when  I'm  gone,  so  might's 
well  have  it  now.  And  I'm  counting  that  maybe  you'll  kind 
of  help  me  out.  I'm  not  supposing" — he  turned  a  pair  of 
patient  eyes  on  Barbara,  and  the  tame,  kindly  lovingness  in 
them  seemed  at  once  to  shield  and  to  caress  her— "I'm  not 
supposing  Miss  Barbara's  what's  called  in  love  with  me. 
'T wouldn't  be  natural.  But  I  think  she  might  like  me  if 
she  came  to  know  me  and  gave  me  a  fair  show.  Especially 
when  she  knows  more  o'  the  way  people  get  along  than  she 
does  now;  she'd  see  how  different  I'd  treat  her  from  the  way 
a  lot  of  men  do  that  have  got  wives  and  don't  know  how 
to  use  'em.  I  always  thought  this  was  a  kind  of  rough  world 
for  women,  and  I'd  like  to  do  what's  really  right  by  one  of 
them." 

Nobody  answered,  but  Tony  lifted  a  long  grave  look  to  his. 

"And  so  I  thought,"  continued  Mr.  Bates,  "that  some  of 
you  who  haven't  such  fancy  ideas  as  it's  natural  enough 
she's  got,  would  speak  to  her,  and  tell  her  that  if— if  you 
don't  see  something  as  pretty  as  you'd  like,  it's  best  to  take 
something  that's  all  wool." 

He  was  greatly  pleased  at  this  flower  of  speech,  and 
looked  up  quickly  and  brightly  at  Barbara,  and  Barbara 
smiled.  She  had  a  slow  smile  of  infinite  possibilities,  and 
Mr.  Bates  looked  at  it  a  little  before  he  proceeded:  "I've  got 
money,  a  couple  of  hundred  thousand,  one  way  and  another, 
and  more  making — and  I've  got  health  and  good  habits,  and 
the  store  I  set  by  her,  you  wouldn't  believe  it.  Well,  I  guess 
she's  kind  of  notiony  and  high-spirited,  and  I  don't  seem 
much  to  her,  but  I'm  relying  you'll  tell  her  those  are  things 
make  life  comfortable  and  worth  having  just  the  same;  and 
I  should  think  you,  Mrs.  Baker,  that's  had  your  own  troubles 
in  your  time,  would  feel  kind  o'  scared  to  have  anything  so 


382    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

pretty  and  so  kind  of  high-headed  and  proud,  around  like 
this." 

"God  is  my  witness,  Mr.  Bates — "  began  Estella  leaning 
forward. 

"Not,"  hurriedly  continued  the  suitor,  "not  as  I've  got 
anything  to  say  against  your  profession.  Those  that  like 
it — why,  let  'em,  I  say.  But  it  ain't  the  life  for  a  woman, 
is  it?  Now,  is  it?  Nor,  I  shouldn't  think  myself,  for  a 
man  either.  I  don't  mean  any  disrespect,  but  it  does  seem 
to  me  a  lady  like  Miss  Barbara's  got  something  more  com 
ing  to  her  than  this,  and  what's  more,"  he  added,  medita 
tively,  "it  seems  like  it  don't  pay." 

Tony,  who  was  leaning  on  his  knees  with  his  chin  in  his 
hands,  lifted  his  guileless  eyes,  and  said  sweetly;  "It's  only 
fair  to  the  profession,  Mr.  Bates,  to  tell  you  that  we  are  not 
its  most  victorious  exponents." 

"Likely,  likely,"  admitted  Mr.  Bates,  a  little  mystified. 
"But  we  can  keep  a  woman  out  of  it,  Mr.  Reeno,  and  take 
her  clean  away  from  all  this  stage  business." 

"You  don't  think,"  inquired  Tony — this  was  the  only 
base  advantage  Tony  took — "you  don't  think  she  ought  to 
have  anything  to  say  about  it,  herself — the  being  taken  clean 
away  from  all  this  stage  business?" 

"Not  when  she's  got  a  man  to  look  after  her,"  said  Mr. 
Bates,  "and  give  her  a  comfortable  home." 

"Oh!"  admitted  Tony,  and  confided  a  twinkle  to  the 
flooring. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Estella,  "it's  a  very  great  respon 
sibility  for  me,  and  I  don't  want  to  urge  you.  But  if  I'd 
married  Mr.  Fettercamp  when  he  wanted  me  to,  we'd  all  be 
rolling  in  our  own  carriages  this  minute.  There  was  his 
sister  married  an  Italian  prince,  and  she  wasn't  a  circum 
stance  to  Barbara.  She's  dead,  now,  poor  girl,  but  she  mar 
ried  him.  But,  no,  I  would  have  Tommy  Baker  because  I 
loved  him — indeed,  I  did,  Barbara  Floyd,  I  loved  him  madly 
—but  there's  no  use  marrying  for  love  when  you  can't  even 
be  sure  he'll  send  you  your  alimony  right.  And  because  I 
wrecked  my  life,  Barbara,  I'd  like  to  see  you  marry  some 
body  worthy.  I'd  say  the  same  if  it  was  Regina.  Regina — 


THE  LOTUS  EATERS  383 

Regina  Baker,  don't  you  put  that  penny  in  your  mouth. 
Come  here — come  here  to  mamma." 

Regina  advanced  slowly,  and  Estella  gathered  the  curls 
out  of  her  warm  little  neck  and  hastily  polished  off  her  face 
with  a  handkerchief.  "Don't  you  know  Mr.  Bates,  darling? 
What  do  nice  little  girls  say  to  gentlemen?" 

Regina  ducked  her  head,  made  an  unintelligible  sound  and 
extended  her  hand. 

"How-de-do,  miss,"  said  Mr.  Bates,  shaking  the  hand. 
"I'm  sorry  I  didn't  think  to  bring  you  some  candy.  Better 
luck  next  time,  eh?  Why,  why,  you  mustn't  begin  to  cry, 
little  girl.  Don't  you  want  to  be  friends  with  me!"  Regina 
nodded.  "Don't  you  want  to  grow  up  and  have  a  pony  to 
ride,  and  learn  the  piano?" 

"Awn  go  finey  aws,"  said  Regina. 

"She  wants  to  go  on  the  flying  horses,"  translated  the 
patient  Fred.  "Merry-go-round,  you  know." 

"And  so  she  shall!"  assented  Mr.  Bates. 

Regina  glowed  with  joy.     "An  Anny  Bobs?" 

"And  Auntie  Barbara?"  Mr.  Bates  repeated  after  Fred, 
"why  yes,  indeed." 

Regina,  in  a  kind  of  vacuous  triumph,  smiled  around  the 
room  and  had  an  inspiration.  "An  Tony?" 

"Why,"  responded  Mr.  Bates  hesitatingly,  "maybe  he 
wouldn't  want  to." 

A  perfect  torrent  of  joyous  sounds,  intended  to  be  affirma 
tive,  burst  from  Regina's  lips.  In  the  vigor  of  her  confidence 
she  flung  herself  upon  the  legs  of  Mr.  Bates  and  beat  his 
knees.  "Oh,  yef !  As  time,  as  time,  aw  lone,  Rina  an  Anny 
Bobs  and  Tony  go  finey  aws,  go  roun  an  roun  an  roun,  an 
Tony  caw  go  ring!" 

There  was  a  suspicion  of  thickness  in  the  voice  of  the 
translator:  "Once,  last  time,  nobody  else  happened  to  be 
there.  Tony  and  Barbara  rode,  too,  and  Tony  caught  the 
gold  ring;  you  know,  with  those  little  blunt  swords." 

"Why,  he's  a  very  clever  young  man,"  Mr.  Bates  affably 
replied. 

Regina  smote  his  knees  and  shrieked  with  joy.  "Oh,  yef!" 
she  repeated,  "an  Anny  Bobs  gah  go  ring." 


384   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

"You  said  it  was  Mr.  Tony  caught  the  gold  ring,  little 
girl." 

"That's  what  she  means  to  say,"  said  Fred. 

"No!  no!"  Regina  passionately  insisted. 

"Anny  Bobs  gah  go  ring!  Anny  Bobs  gah  go  ring  now! 
Rina  fine  it." 

"Well,  well,  Regina,"  Estella  interrupted,  "Mr.  Bates 
can't  talk  to  you  all  day!" 

"I  paid  it  her  as  a  reward  of  merit.  I  assure  you,  I  gave 
the  man  a  dime  for  it,"  said  Tony,  softly,  with  a  little  blush. 

Mr.  Bates  passed  over  the  insignificance  of  Tony's  shabby 
boyhood  with  the  good  temper  of  a  potentate.  "Well,"  said 
he,  giving  his  face  a  final  wipe,  "I  guess  I've  said  what  I 
laid  out  to.  I  didn't  come  here  to  talk  soft.  That  part  of 
it's  just  my  business,  and  hers— if  she'll  have  it."  He  got 
up  and  took  his  hat  and  went  over  to  Barbara.  "Miss  Bar 
bara,"  he  said,  "if  you  can  make  out  to  like  me — like  me  well 
enough  to  have  me — you'll  never  regret  it."  He  held  out 
his  hand,  and  Barbara  gave  him  hers  with  her  long  boyish 
clasp.  Kate  followed  him  to  the  door  and  let  him  out 

An  unpleasant  silence  settled  upon  the  company.  Its 
members  were  suddenly  set  face  to  face  with  decision  and 
responsibility;  they  were  crowded  and  jostled  and  made  to 
feel  strange  and  ill  at  ease,  here,  in  the  dilapidated  cheer 
of  their  own  home,  by  the  encroaching  wisdom  of  other  worlds. 
Barbara  continued  to  sit  idly  in  the  blinding  sunshine,  like 
a  person  passive  before  the  issue  of  events  and  indifferent  to 
it.  The  fierce  light  seemed  to  set  her  apart  from  counsel 
and  from  tenderness  and  to  blare  aloud  her  beauty. 

Estella,  after  two  or  three  clearings  of  her  throat,  inquired 
with  a  kind  of  trembling  pomp:  "And  what  do  you  think 
about  it  yourself,  my  dear?" 

Barbara  rose  and  came  slowly  to  the  table.  She  stood 
stroking  the  edge  of  it  with  her  hand,  and  finally  she  said: 
"I'll  tell  you  what  I  think.  I  think  that  if  I  were  married 
to  Mr.  Bates,  I  shouldn't  have  to  run  out  into  the  hall  to  ogle 
landlords  to  cheat  them  out  of  their  rent.  I  think  I  shouldn't 
have  to  pretend  to  be  out  when  the  milkman  comes,  nor 
wheedle  the  butcher,  nor  have  the  gas  turned  off.  I  shouldn't 


THE  LOTUS  EATERS  385 

have  to  walk  out  of  a  hateful  mess  like  this" — Estella 
gasped — "dressed  as  if  I  were  going  to  a  beauty  show, 
because  I  wanted  work,  and  into  offices  where  I  should  be 
looked  over  as  if  I  were  a  horse.  I  think  I  shouldn't  owe 
every  stitch  I  wear  and  everything  I  put  into  my  mouth  to 
my  sister's  divorced  husband.  That's  what  I  think.  I  think 
I  should  be  looked  out  for  and  taken  care  of  and  kept  away 
from  hurt,  as  other  women  are!" 

Estella  began:     "Well,  of  all  the—" 

"And  I  think,"  continued  Barbara,  her  voice  rising  to  a 
hysteric  pitch,  "that  my  husband  would  be  respected  every 
where,  and  would  work  for  me  and  be  true  and  good,  and 
not  depend  for  his  pleasure  upon  a  friend's  getting  some 
money,  and  taking  him  out  to  dinner  with  girls — " 

"Oh,  oh!  Barbara!"  cried  Fred. 

"It  was  such  a  good  dinner,  Barbara!"  said  Tony.  Un 
questionably,  his  smile  was  coming  back. 

The  dogs  at  the  same  moment  began  to  quarrel  over  a  bone 
and  their  voices  rose  in  ear-splitting  dispute.  Estella  cuffed 
one  of  them  and  the  other  carried  the  bone  into  the  sitting- 
room,  from  whence  issued  ecstatic  lickings  and  crunchings. 

In  the  comparative  pause  Mrs.  Donnelly's  tearful  indig 
nation  burst  upon  Barbara:  "We  all  know  what  you  mean 
by  that  last,  Barbara  Floyd,"  she  cried.  "And  I  guess  there 
are  other  people,  besides  you,  in  this  house  that  are  sick  and 
tired  of  being  poor,  and  the  fuss  there  is  about  meals,  and 
that  have  spent  all  their  money  on  you,  and  whose  fathers 
were  rich  and  famous,  and  thought  nothing  of  living  at  Del- 
monico's,  before  ever  you  were  born.  If  the  butcher  is 
swindled  out  of  his  meat,  I  don't  see  but  you  eat  your  share 
of  it.  If  you  think  it's  messy  here,  why  don't  you  get  up 
and  clean  it  ?  Tony's  scrubbed  the  kitchen  while  you've  been 
lolling  there,  and  you  wouldn't  know  how  to  cook  anything 
but  a  boiled  egg  and  a  pickle  to  this  day  if  it  wasn't  for 
Tony.  You're  a  bad,  ungrateful  girl,  Barbara  Floyd,  and 
Tony—" 

Estella  pitched  her  voice  above  the  voices  of  Mrs.  Donnelly 
and  the  dogs :  "Don't  you  try  to  bully  my  sister,  Kate  Don 
nelly,  she—" 


386    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

Tony  struck  the  table  sharply  with  his  hand.  "Come, 
Barbara,"  he  said.  "We  must  get  the  washing  down  now." 
He  held  the  door  open  for  her,  and  without  looking  round 
she  went  past  him  into  the  hall. 

At  the  head  of  the  top  flight  of  stairs  there  was  a  door  with 
a  heavy,  sliding  weight,  and  Tony,  who  had  run  upstairs  in 
advance,  pushed  it  open,  and  with  a  wave  of  the  hand,  like 
a  lavish  host,  welcomed  Barbara  to  the  great,  shining  roof. 
It  was  very  wide  and  hot  and  silent,  and  little  airs  that  the 
sidewalk  never  knew  drifted  over  its  cornices.  Said  Tony: 
"  'To  where,  beyond  the  voices,  there  is  peace.' >; 

Barbara  stepped  out  fearlessly  between  the  glare  of  the 
red  roofs  and  the  glare  of  the  blue  and  golden  sky.  With  a 
happy  breath  she  turned  her  unshielded  face  up  to  the  light. 
This  stretch  of  gleaming  tin  had  long  been  their  private  gar 
den,  and  they  had  known  it  in  many  kinds  of  weather.  "Oh, 
Tony!"  she  said,  in  a  little  soft,  fluttered,  laughing  voice, 
"we  needn't  bother  about  the  washing  yet,  need  we?" 

"Come,"  said  Tony.  "I've  found  a  place  where  we  can 
see  the  river.  I  found  it  for  us  this  morning.  Musn't  tell!" 

"No,"  she  said,  and  put  her  hand  out  to  him,  like  a  child. 
"Show  me." 

Behind  its  newer  and  broader  substitute  an  old  chimney 
rose  out  of  the  roof's  western  bulwark,  from  which  it  parted 
company  a  few  feet  above  the  ground  in  an  angle  of  crumb 
ling  brick  and  mortar.  Tony  jumped  into  the  niche  of  this 
angle  and  held  down  a  hand  to  Barbara.  "Step  up  and  I'll 
lift  you,"  he  directed.  She  was  beside  him  in  an  instant, 
and  found  herself  breast-high  above  the  parapet,  which 
served  as  an  elbow  rest.  It  was  too  broad  to  let  them  see 
straight  down  into  the  common,  cluttered  street,  and  beyond 
the  shops  and  the  low  buildings  over  the  way  stumbled  the 
vine-smothered  huts  of  squatters;  past  a  bit  of  leafy,  broken 
ground  the  wide  green  of  market  gardens  was  dotted  with  the 
gold  of  sunflowers  and  the  scarlet  of  geraniums,  a  single 
close-shorn  lawn  was  banked  with  the  white  and  the  mystic 
blue  of  hydrangeas.  Further  yet,  between  the  shimmer  of 
poplars  and  the  frown  of  purple  hills,  the  river  flashed  and 
drifted. 


THE  LOTUS  EATERS  387 

"It's  good  here,"  said  Tony. 

Barbara  stretched  her  arm  across  the  parapet  as  though 
she  stretched  it  into  the  coolness  of  fresh  water.  "There's  a 
yacht — a  white  one;  watch!  Going  down  the  river!  Let's 
pretend  it's  going  straight  to  sea,  Tony — what  fun!  Across 
the  sea." 

"We're  going  with  it,  you  know.  Just  ourselves,  of  course, 
and  a  telescope,  maybe,  and  plenty  of  honey  wrapped  up  in 
a  five-pound  note.  All  the  little  fishes  will  come  and  beg 
us  for  the  honey,  and  you'll  give  it  to  them  out  of  your  hands, 
till  I  shall  be  jealous.  It  isn't  nice  to  be  jealous.  I  wouldn't 
let  even  a  little  fish  suffer  it,  if  I  were  you,  Barbara — Why, 
Barbara!  what  foolishness  you  talk!  And  you  don't  even 
hear  me!" 

"I  wish  I  could  see  all  this  from  my  own  window,"  she 
said. 

"Ah,  but  you  can't!  I  had  to  show  it  to  you,  Barbara. 
It  was  quite  easy  to  find,  but  you  know  you  never  found  it." 
The  little  rosy  ruffle  of  Barbara's  sleeve  lay  on  the  rough  edge 
of  the  parapet,  and  Tony  bent  his  head  and  kissed  it.  "I 
was  sure  you'd  like  it  here.  Be  good,"  he  said. 

The  voices  of  some  children  singing  ring-games  on  a  near 
fire-escape  rose  with  an  accent  of  their  own  natures  to  the 
two  truants  on  the  housetop.  Otherwise  they  seemed  the 
only  living  souls  in  a  universe  made  up  of  two  expanses; 
below  them,  the  wide,  sparkling,  burning  roofs,  with  one 
distant  fringe  of  leaves  and  waters,  and  above,  the  radiant, 
hot  blue,  luminous  and  quivering,  and  scarcely  tinged  by 
the  white  clouds  which  slowly  sailed  across  it  and  banked 
themselves  on  the  horizon  into  palaces  and  temples.  Toward 
the  west,  where  the  sun  blazed  in  a  splendor  that  even  the 
eyes  of  lovers  dared  not  meet,  the  heavens  were  almost  white 
— not  in  pallor,  but  effulgence,  like  light  incarnate.  Small, 
lazy  breezes  floated  through  the  sunshine,  and  brushed,  fresh 
and  sweet,  against  their  faces. 

"Barbara,"  said  Tony,  leaning  forward  and  catching  her 
by  both  wrists,  "where  did  Regina  find  my  ring?" 

She  was  startled  both  by  the  suddenness  of  his  attack  and 
by  the  strength  of  his  hold,  and  straining  back  upon  his 


388   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

grasp  she  remained  alert  and  silent,  like  a  deer.  He  waited 
a  moment,  but  she  continued  passionately  quiet,  passion 
ately  studious  of  his  face.  In  the  pause,  the  voices  of  the 
children  arose  with  a  new  clearness : 

And  on  his  breast  he  wore  a  star, 
Pointing  to  the  East  and  West. 

"Barbara!" 

"Hush!"  she  insisted.  Her  breath  was  fluttering  on  her 
lips,  and  her  eyes  shining  into  his: 

Go  choose  your  East,  go  choose  your  West 
Go  choose  the  one  that  you  love  best. 

"You  kept  that  ring!"  he  said.  "You  kept  it — because  of 
me!"  Almost  as  he  spoke  she  had  leaped  down  and  away 
from  him,  and  was  running  across  the  roof. 

He  caught  up  with  her  on  the  low  platform  of  wooden 
slats  amid  the  flutter  of  the  wet  linens. 

"Help  me  take  these  in,"  she  called  to  him:  "Estella  will 
be  angry."  She  was  struggling  with  the  clothes-pins,  and 
their  fingers  met  over  a  row  of  pillow-slips. 

"They're  not  dry  yet.     Listen,  I—" 

"There's  a  breeze  come  up.  It  will  dry  them  in  a  minute." 
She  was  moving  further  and  further  away. 

"Why,  see,  my  sweet,  you  don't  know  what  you're  saying ! 
I  want  to  tell  you — " 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  pausing  oppressedly,  "what  does  every 
body  tell  me?  That  you  are  idle,  that  you  are  extravagant, 
that  you — that  you — that  girls — " 

"Barbara,"  he  said,  "though  they  follow  me  in  their  thou 
sands  and  their  ten  thousands,  though  their  dead  bodies 
strew  my  pathway,  I  will  be  blind  to  them.  I  love  you, 
Barbara." 

She  retreated  again,  making  as  though  to  reach  the  door, 
and  he  stood  still  in  a  sudden  bitterness,  with  a  little  wound 
in  the  dignity  of  his  love.  The  next  instant  he  was  startled 
to  see  her,  who  was  so  light  and  true  of  step,  stumble  and 
lose  her  footing  on  a  broken  slat  and  sink  down  in  a  heap 
with  her  hands  over  her  face. 


THE  LOTUS  EATERS  389 

He  ran  up  and  bent  over  her  without  touching  her.  "Oh, 
my  dear!"  he  asked;  "what  is  it?  Are  you  hurt?  Or  were 
you  angry?  Would  you  like  me  to  go  away?  What  is  it?" 

She  lifted  her  face  to  his  and  put  her  arms  around  his  neck. 

"I  was  thinking  of  you,"  she  said. 

Half  an  hour  later  as  they  still  sat  on  the  platform  the 
roof  rang  with  their  names,  and  from  under  their  damp 
canopy  of  tablecloths  and  towels  they  perceived  Estella  in 
the  doorway. 

"Come  on!"  she  called.  "Why,  whatever's  kept  you? 
Come  on !  The  alimony's  come,  and  we're  all  going  to  Coney 
Island  for  dinner!" 

"Don't  be  so  noisy,  Estella  1"  said  Tony.  "We're  en 
gaged." 

"Really?  Really,  Barbara?  Well,  I'm  glad  of  it- 
Yes,  Regina,"  she  called  over  her  shoulder,  "come  up. 
Mamma's  here. — Well,  I'm  very  glad.  And  I'll  have  my 
white  satin  cleaned  for  her  as  soon  as  I  can.  How  jolly 
we're  going  out  to  dinner!  Like  a  party  for  you,  Barbara." 

"Splendid!"  said  Tony.  "The  alimony  baked  meats  did 
coldly  furnish  forth  the  marriage  tables." 

He  sprang  up  and  handed  Barbara  to  her  feet.  There 
fell  to  the  ground  something  Barbara  had  been  showing 
Tony — a  slender  ribbon,  as  long  as  a  watch-chain,  and, 
dangling  from  its  end,  a  great,  clumsy,  ridiculous  gilt  ring. 
Regina,  who  came  staggering  through  the  doorway,  fell  upon 
this  latter  object  with  a  shriek  of  joyous  recognition.  "Anny 
Bobs  gah  go  ring!"  she  cried.  "Rina  awn  go  finey  aws,  go 
finey  aws,  go  roun  an  roun  an  roun!" 


JEAN-AH  POQUELIN* 

BY  G.  W.  CABLE 

IN  the  first  decade  of  the  present  century,  when  the  newly 
established  American  Government  was  the  most  hateful 
thing  in  Louisiana — when  the  Creoles  were  still  kicking 
at  such  vile  innovations  as  the  trial  by  jury,  American  dances, 
anti-smuggling  laws,  and  the  printing  of  the  Governor's  proc 
lamation-  in  English — when  the  Anglo-American  flood  that 
was  presently  to  burst  in  a  crevasse  of  immigration  upon  the 
delta  had  thus  far  been  felt  only  as  slippery  seepage  which 
made  the  Creole  tremble  for  his  footing — there  stood,  a  short 
distance  above  what  is  now  Canal  Street,  and  considerably 
back  from  the  line  of  villas  which  fringed  the  river-bank  on 
Tchoupitoulas  Road,  an  old  colonial  plantation-house  half  in 
ruin. 

It  stood  aloof  from  civilization,  the  tracts  that  had  once 
been  its  indigo  fields  given  over  to  their  first  noxious  wild- 
ness,  and  grown  up  into  one  of  the  horridest  marshes  within 
a  circuit  of  fifty  miles. 

The  house  was  of  heavy  cypress,  lifted  up  on  pillars,  grim, 
solid,  and  spiritless,  its  massive  build  a  strong  reminder  of 
days  still  earlier,  when  every  man  had  been  his  own  peace 
officer  and  the  insurrection  of  the  blacks  a  daily  contingency. 
Its  dark,  weather-beaten  roof  and  sides  were  hoisted  up  above 
the  jungly  plain  in  a  distracted  way,  like  a  gigantic  ammuni 
tion-wagon  stuck  in  the  mud  and  abandoned  by  some  re 
treating  army.  Around  it  was  a  dense  growth  of  low  water 
willows,  with  half  a  hundred  sorts  of  thorny  or  fetid  bushes, 
savage  strangers  alike  to  the  "language  of  flowers"  and  to  the 
botanist's  Greek.  They  were  hung  with  countless  strands  of 
discolored  and  prickly  smilax,  and  the  impassable  mud  below 

*From  "Old  Creole  Days,"  copyright,  1879,  1883,  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons.  By  permission  of  the  publishers,  and  the  author. 

390 


JEAN-AH  POQUELIN  391 

bristled  with  chevaux  de  frise  of  the  dwarf -palmetto.  Two 
lone  forest-trees,  dead  cypresses,  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
marsh,  dotted  with  roosting  vultures.  The  shallow  strips  of 
water  were  hid  by  myriads  of  aquatic  plants,  tinder  whose 
coarse  and  spiritless  flowers,  could  one  have  seen  it,  was  a 
harbor  of  reptiles,  great  and  small,  to  make  one  shudder  to 
the  end  of  his  days. 

The  house  was  on  a  slightly  raised  spot,  the  levee  of  a 
draining  canal.  The  waters  of  this  canal  did  not  run;  they 
crawled,  and  were  full  of  big,  ravening  fish  and  alligators, 
that  held  it  against  all  comers. 

Such  was  the  home  of  old  Jean  Marie  Poquelin,  once  an 
opulent  indigo  planter,  standing  high  in  the  esteem  of  his 
small,  proud  circle  of  exclusively  male  acquaintances  in  the 
old  city;  now  a  hermit,  alike  shunned  by  and  shunning  all 
who  had  ever  known  him.  "The  last  of  his  line,"  said  the 
gossips.  His  father  lies  under  the  floor  of  the  St.  Louis 
Cathedral,  with  the  wife  of  his  youth  on  one  side,  and  the 
wife  of  his  old  age  on  the  other.  Old  Jean  visits  the  spot 
daily.  His  half-brother — alas!  there  was  a  mystery;  no  one 
knew  what  had  become  of  the  gentle,  young  half-brother, 
more  than  thirty  years  his  junior,  whom  once  he  seemed  so 
fondly  to  love,  but  who,  seven  years  ago,  had  disappeared 
suddenly,  once  for  all,  and  left  no  clew  of  his  fate. 

They  had  seemed  to  live  so  happily  in  each  other's  love. 
No  father,  mother,  wife  to  either,  no  kindred  upon  earth. 
The  elder  a  bold,  frank,  impetuous,  chivalric  adventurer; 
the  younger  a  gentle,  studious,  book-loving  recluse;  they  lived 
upon  the  ancestral  estate  like  mated  birds,  one  always  on  the 
wing,  the  other  always  in  the  nest. 

There  was  no  trait  in  Jean  Marie  Poquelin,  said  the  old 
gossips,  for  which  he  was  so  well  known  among  his  few 
friends  as  his  apparent  fondness  for  his  "little  brother." 
"Jacques  said  this,"  and  "Jacques  said  that,"  he  "would 
leave  this  or  that,  or  anything  to  Jacques,"  for  "Jacques 
was  a  scholar,"  and  "Jacques  was  good,"  or  "wise,"  or 
"just,"  or  "far-sighted,"  as  the  nature  of  the  case  required; 
and  "he  should  ask  Jacques  as  soon  as  he  got  home,"  since 
Jacques  was  never  elsewhere  to  be  seen. 


392    THE  GREAT  MODERN^  AMERICAN  STORIES 

It  was  between  the  roving  character  of  the  one  brother, 
and  the  bookishness  of  the  other,  that  the  estate  fell  into 
decay.  Jean  Marie,  generous  gentleman,  gambled  the  slaves 
away  one  by  one,  until  none  was  left,  man  or  woman,  but  one 
old  African  mute. 

The  indigo-fields  and  vats  of  Louisiana  had  been  gen 
erally  abandoned  as  unremunerative.  Certain  enterprising 
men  had  substituted  the  culture  of  sugar;  but  while  the  re 
cluse  was  too  apathetic  to  take  so  active  a  course,  the  other 
saw  larger,  and,  at  that  time,  equally  respectable  profits,  first 
in  smuggling,  and  later  in  the  African  slave-trade.  What 
harm  could  he  see  in  it?  The  whole  people  said  it  was 
vitally  necessary,  and  to  minister  to  a  vital  public  necessity, 
— good  enough,  certainly,  and  so  he  laid  up  many  a  doub 
loon,  that  made  him  none  the  worse  in  the  public  regard. 

One  day  old  Jean  Marie  was  about  to  start  upon  a  voyage 
that  was  to  be  longer,  much  longer,  than  any  that  he  had  yet 
made.  Jacques  had  begged  him  hard  for  many  days  not  to 
go,  but  he  laughed  him  off,  and  finally  said,  kissing  him: 

"Adieu,  'tit  jrere." 

"No,"  said  Jacques,  "I  shall  go  with  you." 

They  left  the  old  hulk  of  a  house  in  the  sole  care  of  the 
African  mute,  and  went  away  to  the  Guinea  coast  together. 

Two  years  after,  old  Poquelin  came  home  without  his  ves 
sel.  He  must  have  arrived  at  his  house  by  night.  No  one 
saw  him  come.  No  one  saw  "his  little  brother";  rumor 
whispered  that  he,  too,  had  returned,  but  he  had  never  been 
seen  again. 

A  dark  suspicion  fell  upon  the  old  slave-trader.  No 
matter  that  the  few  kept  the  many  reminded  of  the  tenderness 
that  had  ever  marked  his  bearing  to  the  missing  man.  The 
many  shook  their  heads.  "You  know  he  has  a  quick  and 
fearful  temper";  and  "why  does  he  cover  his  loss  with  mys 
tery  ?"  "Grief  would  out  with  the  truth." 

"But,"  said  the  charitable  few,  "look  in  his  face;  see  that 
expression  of  true  humanity."  The  many  did  look  in  his 
face,  and,  as  he  looked  in  theirs,  he  read  the  silent  question : 
"Where  is  thy  brother  Abel?"  The  few  were  silenced,  his 
former  friends  died  off,  and  the  name  of  Jean  Marie  Poquelin 


JEAN -AH  POQUELIN  393 

became  a  symbol  of  witchery,  devilish  crime,  and  hideous 
nursery  fictions. 

The  man  and  his  house  were  alike  shunned.  The  snipe 
and  duck  hunters  forsook  the  marsh,  and  the  woodcutters 
abandoned  the  canal.  Sometimes  the  hardier  boys  who 
ventured  out  there  snake-shooting  heard  a  slow  thumping  of 
oar-locks  on  the  canal.  They  would  look  at  each  other  for 
a  moment  half  in  consternation,  half  in  glee,  then  rush  from 
their  sport  in  wanton  haste  to  assail  with  their  gibes  the  un 
offending,  withered  old  man  who,  in  rusty  attire,  sat  in  the 
stern  of  a  skiff  rowed  homeward  by  his  white-headed  Afri 
can  mute. 

"O  Jean-ah  Poquelin!     O  Jean-ah!  Jean-ah  Poquelin!" 

It  was  not  necessary  to  utter  more  than  that.  No  hint  of 
wickedness,  deformity,  or  any  physical  or  moral  demerit; 
merely  the  name  and  tone  of  mockery:  "Oh,  Jean-ah  Poque 
lin!"  and  while  they  tumbled  one  over  another  in  their  need 
less  haste  to  fly,  he  would  rise  carefully  from  his  seat,  while 
the  aged  mute,  with  downcast  face,  went  on  rowing,  and  roll 
ing  up  his  brown  fist  and  extending  it  toward  the  urchins, 
would  pour  forth  such  an  unholy  broadside  of  French  impre 
cation  and  invective  as  would  all  but  craze  them  with  de 
light. 

Among  both  blacks  and  whites  the  house  was  the  object 
of  a  thousand  superstitions.  Every  midnight,  they  affirmed, 
the  feu  follet  came  out  of  the  marsh  and  ran  in  and  out  of 
the  rooms,  flashing  from  window  to  window.  The  story  of 
some  lads,  whose  words  in  ordinary  statements  were  worth 
less,  was  generally  credited,  that  the  night  they  camped  in 
the  woods,  rather  than  pass  the  place  after  dark,  they  saw, 
about  sunset,  every  window  blood-red,  and  on  each  of  the 
four  chimneys  an  owl  sitting,  which  turned  his  head  three 
times  round,  and  moaned  and  laughed  with  a  human  voice. 
There  was  a  bottomless  well,  everybody  professed  to  know, 
beneath  the  sill  of  the  big  front  door  under  the  rotten 
veranda ;  whoever  set  his  foot  upon  that  threshold  disappeared 
forever  in  the  depth  below. 

What  wonder  the  marsh  grew  as  wild  as  Africa!  Take 
all  the  Faubourg  Ste.  Marie,  and  half  the  ancient  city,  you 


394   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

would  not  find  one  graceless  dare-devil  reckless  enough,  to 
pass  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  house  after  nightfall. 

The  alien  races  pouring  into  old  New  Orleans  began  to 
find  the  few  streets  named  after  the  Bourbon  princes  too 
strait  for  them.  The  wheel  of  fortune,  beginning  to  whirl, 
threw  them  off  beyond  the  ancient  corporation  lines,  and 
sowed  civilization  and  even  trade  upon  the  lands  of  the 
Graviers  and  Girods.  Fields  became  roads,  roads  streets. 
Everywhere  the  leveller  was  peering  through  his  glass,  rods- 
men  were  whacking  their  way  through  willow-brakes  and 
rose-hedges,  and  the  sweating  Irishmen  tossed  the  blue  clay 
up  with  their  long-handled  shovels. 

"Ha!  that  is  all  very  well,"  quoth  the  Jean-Baptistes, 
feeling  the  reproach  of  an  enterprise  that  asked  neither  co 
operation  nor  advice  of  them,  "but  wait  till  they  come  yonder 
to  Jean  Poquelin 's  marsh;  ha!  ha!  ha!"  The  supposed  pre 
dicament  so  delighted  them,  that  they  put  on  a  mock  terror 
and  whirled  about  in  an  assumed  stampede,  then  caught  their 
clasped  hands  between  their  knees  in  excess  of  mirth,  and 
laughed  till  the  tears  ran;  for  whether  the  street-makers 
mired  in  the  marsh,  or  contrived  to  cut  through  old  "Jean- 
ah's"  property,  either  event  would  be  joyful.  Meantime  a 
line  of  tiny  rods,  with  bits  of  white  paper  in  their  split  tops, 
gradually  extended  its  way  straight  through  the  haunted 
ground,  and  across  the  canal  diagonally. 

"We  shall  fill  that  ditch,"  said  the  men  in  mud-boots,  and 
brushed  close  along  the  chained  and  pad-locked  gate  of 
the  haunted  mansion.  Ah,  Jean-ah  Poquelin,  those  were  not 
Creole  boys,  to  be  stampeded  with  a  little  hard  swearing. 

He  went  to  the  governor.  That  official  scanned  the  odd 
figure  with  no  slight  interest.  Jean  Poquelin  was  of  short, 
broad  frame,  with  a  bronzed  leonine  face.  His  brow  was 
ample  and  deeply  furrowed.  His  eye,  large  and  black,  was 
bold  and  open  like  that  of  a  war-horse,  and  his  jaws  shut 
together  with  the  firmness  of  iron.  He  dressed  in  a  suit  of 
Attakapas  cottonade,  and  his  shirt,  unbuttoned  and  thrown 
back  from  the  throat  and  bosom,  sailor-wise,  showed  a  her 
culean  breast,  hard  and  grizzled.  There  was  no  fierceness  or 
defiance  in  his  look,  no  harsh  ungentleness,  no  symptom  of 


JEAN -AH  POQUELIN  395 

his  unlawful  life  or  violent  temper;  but  rather  a  peaceful 
and  peaceable  fearlessness.  Across  the  whole  face,  not 
marked  in  one  or  another  feature,  but,  as  it  were,  laid  softly 
upon  the  countenance  like  an  almost  imperceptible  veil,  was 
the  imprint  of  some  great  grief.  A  careless  eye  might  easily 
overlook  it,  but,  once  seen,  there  it  hung — faint,  but  unmis 
takable. 

The  Governor  bowed. 

"Parlez-vous  frangais?"  asked  the  figure. 

"I  would  rather  talk  English,  if  you  can  do  so,"  said  the 
Governor. 

"My  name,  Jean  Poquelin." 

"How  can  I  serve  you,  Mr.  Poquelin?" 

"My  'ouse  is  yond';  dans  le  marais  la-bas" 

The  Governor  bowed. 

"Dat  marais  billong  to  me." 

"Yes,  sir.". 

"To  me;  Jean  Poquelin;  I  hown  'im  meself." 

"Well,  sir?" 

"He  don't  billong  to  you;  I  get  him  from  me  father." 

"That  is  perfectly  true,  Mr.  Poquelin,  as  far  as  I  ara 
aware." 

"You  want  to  make  strit  pass  yond'?" 

"I  do  not  know,  sir;  it  is  quite  probable;  but  the  city 
will  indemnify  you  for  any  loss  you  may  suffer — you  will  get 
paid,  you  understand." 

"Strit  can't  pass  dare." 

"You  will  have  to  see  the  municipal  authorities  about  that, 
Mr.  Poquelin." 

A  bitter  smile  came  upon  the  old  man's  face : 

"Pardon,  Monsieur,  you  is  not  le  Gouverneur?" 

"Yes." 

"Mais,  yes.  You  har  le  Gouverneur — yes.  Veh-well.  I 
come  to  you.  I  tell  you,  strit  can't  pass  at  me  'ouse." 

"But  you  will  have  to  see" — 

"I  come  to  you.  You  is  le  Gouverneur.  I  know  not  the 
new  laws.  I  ham  a  Fr-r-rench-a-man !  Fr-rench-a-man 
have  something  aller  au  contraire — he  come  at  his  Gouver- 
neur.  I  come  at  you.  If  me  not  had  been  bought  from  me 


396    THE  GREAT  MODERN,  AMERICAN  STORIES 

king  like  bossals  in  the  hold  time,  ze  king  gof — France 
would-a-show  Monsieur  le  Gouverneur  to  take  care  of  his 
men  to  make  strit  in  right  places.  Mais,  I  know;  we  billong 
to  Monsieur  le  President.  I  want  you  do  somesin  for  me, 
eh?" 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  patient  Governor. 

"I  want  you  tell  Monsieur  le  President,  strit — can't — pass 
? — at — me — 'ouse. " 

"Have  a  chair,  Mr.  Poquelin;"  but  the  old  man  did  not 
stir.  The  Governor  took  a  quill  and  wrote  a  line  to  a  city 
official,  introducing  Mr.  Poquelin,  and  asking  for  him  every 
possible  courtesy.  He  handed  it  to  him,  instructing  him 
where  to  present  it. 

"Mr.  Poquelin,"  he  said  with  a  conciliatory  smile,  "tell 
me,  is  it  your  house  that  our  Creole  citizens  tell  such  odd 
stories  about?" 

The  old  man  glared  sternly  upon  the  speaker,  and  with 
immovable  features  said: 

"You  don't  see  me  trade  some  Guinea  nigga'?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"You  don't  see  me  make  some  smugglin'?" 

"No,  sir;  not  at  all." 

"But,  I  am  Jean  Marie  Poquelin.  I  mine  me  hown  biz- 
niss.  Dat  all  right?  Adieu." 

He  put  his  hat  on  and  withdrew.  By  and  by  he  stood, 
letter  in  hand,  before  the  person  to  whom  it  was  addressed. 
This  person  employed  an  interpreter. 

"He  says,"  said  the  interpreter  to  the  officer,  "he  come 
to  make  you  the  fair  warning  how  you  muz  not  make  the 
street  pas'  at  his  'ouse." 

The  officer  remarked  that  "such  impudence  was  refresh 
ing";  but  the  experienced  interpreter  translated  freely. 

"He  says:   'Why  you  don't  want?'  "  said  the  interpreter. 

The  old  slave-trader  answered  at  some  length. 

"He  says,"  said  the  interpreter,  again  turning  to  the  officer, 
"the  marass  is  too  unhealth'  for  peopl'  to  live." 

"But  we  expect  to  drain  his  old  marsh;  it's  not  going  to 
be  a  marsh." 

"II  dit    .    .    ."  the  interpreter  explained  in  French. 


JEAN -AH  POQUELIN  397 

The  old  man  answered  tersely. 

"He  says  the  canal  is  a  private,"  said  the  interpreter. 

"Oh!  that  old  ditch;  that's  to  be  filled  up.  Tell  the  old 
man  we're  going  to  fix  him  up  nicely." 

Translation  being  duly  made,  the  man  in  power  was 
amused  .to  see  a  thunder-cloud  gathering  on  the  old  man's 
face. 

"Tell  him,"  he  added,  "by  the  time  we  finish,  there'll  not 
be  a  ghost  left  in  his  shanty." 

The  interpreter  began  to  translate,  but — 

"/'  comprends,  J'  comprends,"  said  the  old  man,  with  an 
impatient  gesture,  and  burst  forth,  pouring  curses  upon  the 
United  States,  the  President,  the  Territory  of  Orleans,  the 
Congress,  the  Governor  and  all  his  subordinates,  striding  out 
of  the  apartment  as  he  cursed,  while  the  object  of  his  male 
dictions  roared  with  merriment  and  rammed  the  floor  with 
his  foot. 

"Why,  it  will  make  his  old  place  worth  ten  dollars  to  one," 
said  the  official  to  the  interpreter. 

"'Tis  not  for  de  worse  of  de  property,"  said  the  interpreter. 

"I  should  guess  not,"  said  the  other,  whittling  his  chair, 
"seems  to  me  as  if  some  of  these  old  Creoles  would  liever 
live  in  a  crawfish  hole  than  to  have  a  neighbor." 

"You  know  what  make  old  Jean  Poquelin  make  like  that  ? 
I  will  tell  you.  You  know — " 

The  interpreter  was  rolling  a  cigarette,  and  paused  to 
light  his  tinder;  then,  as  the  smoke  poured  in  a  thick  double 
stream  from  his  nostrils,  he  said,  in  a  solemn  whisper: 

"He  is  a  witch." 

"Ho,  ho,  ho!"  laughed  the  other. 

"You  don't  believe  it?  What  you  want  to  bet?"  cried  the 
interpreter,  jerking  himself  half  up  and  thrusting  out  one  arm 
while  he  bared  it  of  its  coat-sleeve  with  the  hand  of  the 
other.  "What  you  want  to  bet?" 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  the  official. 

"Dass  what  I  goin'  to  tell  you.  You  know,  one  evening 
I  was  shooting  some  grosbec.  I  killed  three;  but  I  had 
trouble  to  fin'  them,  it  was  becoming  so  dark.  When  I  have 


398    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

them  I  start'  to  come  home;  then  I  got  to  pas'  at  Jean  Poque- 
lin's  house." 

"Ho,  ho,  ho!"  laughed  the  other,  throwing  his  leg  over  the 
arm  of  his  chair. 

"Wait,"  said  the  interpreter.  "I  come  along  slow,  not  mak 
ing  some  noises;  still,  still — " 

"And  scared,"  said  the  smiling  one. 

"Mais*  wait.  I  get  all  pas'  the  'ouse.  'Ah!'  I  say,  'all 
right!'  Then  I  see  two  thing'  before!  Hah!  I  get  as  cold 
and  humide,  and  shake  like  a  leaf.  You  think  it  was 
nothing?  There  I  see,  so  plain  as  can  be  (though  it  was 
making  nearly  dark),  I  see  Jean — Marie — Po-que-lin  walkin' 
right  in  front,  and  right  there  beside  of  him  was  something 
like  a  man — but  not  a  man — white  like  paint! — 1  drop'  on 
the  grass  from  scared — they  pass' ;  so  sure  as  I  live  'twas  the 
ghos'  of  Jacques  Poquelin,  his  brother!" 

"Pooh!"  said  the  listener. 

"Ill  put  my  han'  in  the  fire,"  said  the  interpreter. 

"But  did  you  never  think,"  asked  the  other,  "that  that 
might  be  Jack  Poquelin,  as  you  call  him,  alive  and  well,  and 
for  some  cause  hid  away  by  his  brother  I'*' 

"But  there  har'  no  cause!"  said  the  other,  and  the  entrance 
of  third  parties  changed  the  subject. 

Some  months  passed  and  the  street  was  opened.  A  canal 
was  first  dug  through  the  marsh,  the  small  one  which  passed 
so  close  to  Jean  Poquelin's  house  was  filled,  and  the  street. 
or  rather  a  sunny  road  just  touched  a  corner  of  the  old 
mansion's  dooryard.  The  morass  ran  dry.  Its  venomous 
denizens  slipped  away  through  the  bulrushes;  the  cattle  roam 
ing  freely  upon  its  hardened  surface  trampled  the  super 
abundant  undergrowth.  The  bellowing  frogs  croaked  to 
westward.  Lilies  and  the  flower-de-luce  sprang  up  in  the 
place  of  reeds ;  smilax  and  poison-oak  gave  way  to  the  purple- 
plumed  iron- weed  and  pink  spiderwort;  the  bindweeds  ran 
everywhere,  blooming  as  they  ran,  and  on  one  of  the  dead 
cypresses  a  giant  creeper  hung  its  green  burden  of  foliage  and 
lifted  its  scarlet  trumpets.  Sparrows  and  red-birds  flitted 
through  the  bushes,  and  dewberries  grew  ripe  beneath.  Over 
all  these  came  a  sweet,  dry  smell  of  salubrity  which  the  place 


JEAN- AH  POQUELIN  399 

had  not  known  since  the  sediments  of  the  Mississippi  first 
lifted  it  from  the  sea. 

But  its  owner  did  not  build.  Over  the  willow-brakes,  and 
down  the  vista  of  the  open  street,  bright  new  houses,  some 
singly,  some  by  ranks,  were  prying  in  upon  the  old  man's 
privacy.  They  even  settled  down  towards  his  southern  side. 
First  a  wood-cutter's  hut  or  two,  then  a  market  gardener's 
shanty,  then  a  painted  cottage,  and  all  at  once  the  faubourg 
had  flanked  and  half  surrounded  him  and  his  dried-up  marsh. 

Ah!  then  the  common  people  began  to  hate  him.  "The 
old  tyrant!"  "You  don't  mean  an  old  tyrant?"  Well,  then, 
why  don't  he  build  when  the  public  need  demands  it  ?  What 
does  he  live  in  that  unneighborly  way  for?"  "The  old 
pirate!"  "The  old  kidnapper!"  How  easily  even  the  most 
ultra  Louisianians  put  on  the  imported  virtues  of  the  North 
when  they  could  be  brought  to  bear  against  the  hermit. 
"There  he  goes,  with  the  boys  after  him!  Ah!  ha!  ha! 
Jean-ah  Poquelin!  Ah!  Jean-ah!  Aha!  aha!  Jean-ah 
Marie!  Jean-ah  Poquelin!  The  old  villain!"  How  mer 
rily  the  swarming  Americains  echo  the  spirit  of  persecution! 
"The  old  fraud,"  they  say,  "pretends  to  live  in  a  haunted 
house,  does  he  ?  We'll  tar  and  feather  him  some  day.  Guess 
we  can  fix  him." 

He  cannot  be  rowed  home  along  the  old  canal  now;  he 
walks.  He  has  broken  sadly  of  late,  and  the  street  urchins 
are  ever  at  his  heels.  It  is  like  the  days  when  they  cried: 
"Go  up,  thou  bald-head,"  and  the  old  man  now  and  then 
turns  and  delivers  ineffectual  curses. 

To  the  Creoles — to  the  incoming  lower  class  of  supersti 
tious  Germans,  Irish,  Sicilians,  and  others — he  became  an 
omen  and  embodiment  of  public  and  private  ill- fortune. 
Upon  him  all  the  vagaries  of  their  superstitions  gathered  and 
grew.  If  a  house  caught  fire,  it  was  imputed  to  his  machina 
tions.  Did  a  woman  go  off  in  a  fit,  he  had  bewitched  her. 
Did  a  child  stray  off  for  an  hour,  the  mother  shivered  with 
the  apprehension  that  Jean  Poquelin  had  offered  him  to 
strange  gods.  The  house  was  the  subject  of  every  bad  boy's 
invention  who  loved  to  contrive  ghostly  lies.  "As  long  as 
that  house  stands  we  shall  have  bad  luck.  Do  you  not  see 


400   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

our  pease  and  beans  dying,  our  cabbages  and  lettuce  going  to 
seed  and  our  gardens  turning  to  dust,  while  every  day  you 
can  see  it  raining  in  the  woods?  The  rain  will  never  pass 
old  Poquelin's  house.  He  keeps  a  fetich.  He  has  conjured 
the  whole  Faubourg  Ste.  Marie.  And  why,  the  old  wretch? 
Simply  because  our  playful  and  innocent  children  call  after 
him  as  he  passes." 

A  "Building  and  Improvement  Company/'  which  had  not 
yet  got  its  charter,  "but  was  going  to,"  and  which  had  not, 
indeed,  any  tangible  capital  yet,  but  "was  going  to  have 
some,"  joined  the  "Jean-ah  Poquelin"  war.  The  haunted 
property  would  be  such  a  capital  site  for  a  market-house! 
They  sent  a  deputation  to  the  old  mansion  to  ask  its  occupant 
to  sell.  The  deputation  never  got  beyond  the  chained  gate 
and  a  very  barren  interview  with  the  African  mute.  The 
President  of  the  Board  was  then  empowered  (for  he  had 
studied  French  in  Pennsylvania  and  was  considered  quali 
fied)  to  call  and  persuade  M.  Poquelin  to  subscribe  to  the 
company's  stock;  but — 

"Fact  is,  gentlemen,"  he  said  at  the  next  meeting,  "it 
would  take  us  at  least  twelve  months  to  make  Mr.  Pokaleen 
understand  the  rather  original  features  of  our  system,  and 
he  wouldn't  subscribe  when  we'd  done ;  besides,  the  only  way 
to  see  him  is  to  stop  him  on  the  street." 

There  was  a  great  laugh  from  the  Board;  they  couldn't 
help  it.  "Better  meet  a  bear  robbed  of  her  whelps,"  said 
one. 

"You're  mistaken  as  to  that,"  said  the  President.  "I  did 
meet  him,  and  stopped  him,  and  found  him  quite  polite.  But 
I  could  get  no  satisfaction  from  him ;  the  fellow  wouldn't  talk 
in  French,  and  when  I  spoke  in  English  he  hoisted  his  old 
shoulders  up,  and  gave  the  same  answer  to  everything  I  said." 

"And  that  was — ?"  asked  one  or  two  impatient  of  the 
pause. 

"That  it  'don't  worse  w'ile." 

One  of  the  Board  said:  "Mr.  President,  this  market- 
house  project,  as  I  take  it,  is  not  altogether  a  selfish  one;  the 
community  is  to  be  benefited  by  it.  We  may  feel  that  we  are 
working  in  the  public  interest  (the  Board  smiled  know- 


JEAN- AH  POQUELIN  401 

ingly),  if  we  employ  all  possible  means  to  oust  this  old 
nuisance  from  among  us.  You  may  know  that  at  the  time 
the  street  was  cut  through,  this  old  Poquelann  did  all  he 
could  to  prevent  it.  It  was  owing  to  a  certain  connection  which 
I  had  with  that  affair  that  I  heard  a  ghost  story  (smiles, 
followed  by  a  sudden  dignified  check),  a  ghost  story,  which, 
of  course,  I  am  not  going  to  relate;  but  I  may  say  that  my 
profound  conviction,  arising  from  a  prolonged  study  of  that 
story,  is,  that  this  old  villain,  John  Poquelann,  has  his 
brother  locked  up  in  that  old  house.  Now,  if  this  is  so,  and 
we  can  fix  it  on  him,  I  merely  suggest  that  we  can  make  the 
matter  highly  useful.  I  don't  know,"  he  added,  beginning  to 
sit  down,  "but  that  it  is  an  action  we  owe  to  the  community 
—hem!" 

"How  do  you  propose  to  handle  the  subject?"  asked  the 
President. 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  the  speaker,  "that,  as  a  Board  of 
Directors,  it  would  be  unadvisable  for  us  to  authorize  any 
action  involving  trespass;  but  if  you,  for  instance,  Mr. 
President,  should,  as  it  were,  for  mere  curiosity,  request  some 
one,  as,  for  instance,  our  excellent  Secretary,  simply  as  a 
personal  favor,  to  look  into  the  matter — this  is  merely  a 
suggestion." 

The  Secretary  smiled  sufficiently  to  be  understood  that, 
while  he  certainly  did  not  consider  such  preposterous  serv 
ice  a  part  of  his  duties  as  secretary,  he  might,  notwithstand~ 
ing,  accede  to  the  President's  request;  and  the  Board  ad 
journed. 

Little  White,  as  the  Secretary  was  called,  was  a  mild, 
kind-hearted  little  man,  who,  nevertheless,  had  no  fear  of 
anything,  unless  it  was  the  fear  of  being  unkind. 

"I  tell  you  frankly,"  he  privately  said  to  the  President, 
"I  go  into  this  purely  for  reasons  of  my  own." 

The  next  day,  a  little  after  nightfall,  one  might  have  de 
scried  this  little  man  slipping  along  the  rear  fence  of  the 
Poquelin  place,  preparatory  to  vaulting  over  into  the  rank, 
grass-grown  yard,  and  bearing  himself  altogether  more  after 
the  manner  of  a  collector  of  rare  chickens  than  according  to 
the  usage  of  secretaries. 


402    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

The  picture  presented  to  his  eye  was  not  calculated  to  en 
liven  his  mind.  The  old  mansion  stood  out  against  the 
western  sky,  black  and  silent.  One  long,  lurid  pencil-stroke 
along  a  sky  of  slate  was  all  that  was  left  of  daylight.  No 
sign  of  life  was  apparent;  no  light  at  any  window,  unless  it 
might  have  been  on  the  side  of  the  house  hidden  from  view. 
No  owls  were  on  the  chimneys,  no  dogs  were  in  the  yard. 

He  entered  the  place,  and  ventured  up  behind  a  small  cabin 
which  stood  apart  from  the  house.  Through  one  of  its  many 
crannies  he  easily  detected  the  African  mute  crouched  before 
a  flickering  pine-knot,  his  head  on  his  knees,  fast  asleep. 

He  concluded  to  enter  the  mansion,  and,  with  that  view, 
stood  and  scanned  it.  The  broad  rear  steps  of  the  veranda 
would  not  serve  him;  he  might  meet  some  one  midway.  He 
was  measuring,  with  his  eye,  the  proportions  of  one  of  the 
pillars  which  supported  it,  and  estimating  the  practicability 
of  climbing  it,  when  he  heard  a  footstep.  Some  one  dragged 
a  chair  out  toward  the  railing,  then  seemed  to  change  his 
mind  and  began  to  pace  the  veranda,  his  footfalls  resound 
ing  on  the  dry  boards  with  singular  loudness.  Little  White 
drew  a  step  backward,  got  the  figure  between  himself  and  the 
sky,  and  at  once  recognized  the  short,  broad-shouldered  form 
of  old  Jean  Poquelin. 

He  sat  down  upon  a  billet  of  wood,  and,  to  escape  the 
-stings  of  a  whining  cloud  of  mosquitoes,  shrouded  his  face 
and  neck  in  his  handkerchief,  leaving  his  eyes  uncovered. 

He  had  sat  there  but  a  moment  when  he  noticed  a  strange, 
sickening  odor,  faint,  as  if  coming  from  a  distance,  but 
loathsome  and  horrid. 

Whence  could  it  come  ?  Not  from  the  cabin ;  not  from  the 
marsh,  for  it  was  as  dry  as  powder.  It  was  not  in  the  air; 
it  seemed  to  come  from  the  ground. 

Rising  up,  he  noticed,  for  the  first  time,  a  few  steps  before 
him  a  narrow  footpath  leading  toward  the  house.  He 
glanced  down  it — Ha!  right  there  was  some  one  coming — 
ghostly  white! 

Quick  as  thought,  and  as  noiselessly,  he  lay  down  at  full 
length  against  the  cabin.  It  was  bold  strategy,  and  yet,  there 
was  no  denying  it,  little  White  felt  that  he  was  frightened. 


JEAN- AH  POQUELIN  403 

"It  is  not  a  ghost,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I  know  it  cannot 
be  a  ghost";  but  the  perspiration  burst  out  at  every  pore,  and 
the  air  seemed  to  thicken  with  heat.  "It  is  a  living  man,"  he 
said  in  his  thoughts.  "I  hear  his  footsteps,  and  I  hear  old 
Poquelin's  footsteps,  too,  separately,  over  on  the  veranda.  I 
am  not  discovered;  the  thing  has  passed;  there  is  that  odor 
again ;  what  a  smell  of  death !  Is  it  coming  back  ?  Yes.  It 
stops  at  the  door  of  the  cabin.  Is  it  peering  in  at  the  sleep 
ing  mute  ?  It  moves  away.  It  is  in  the  path  again.  Now  it 
is  gone."  He  shuddered.  "Now,  if  I  dare  venture,  the 
mystery  is  solved."  He  rose  cautiously,  close  against  the 
cabin,  and  peered  along  the  path. 

The  figure  of  a  man,  a  presence  if  not  a  body — but  whether 
clad  in  some  white  stuff  or  naked  the  darkness  would  not 
allow  him  to  determine — had  turned,  and  now,  with  a  seem 
ing  painful  gait,  moved  slowly  from  him.  "Great  Heaven  I 
can  it  be  that  the  dead  do  walk?"  He  withdrew  again  the 
hands  which  had  gone  to  his  eyes.  The  dreadful  object 
passed  between  two  pillars  and  under  the  house.  He 
listened.  There  was  a  faint  sound  as  of  feet  upon  a  staircase; 
then  all  was  still  except  the  measured  tread  of  Jean  Poquelin 
walking  on  the  veranda,  and  the  heavy  respirations  of  the 
mute  slumbering  in  the  cabin. 

The  little  Secretary  was  about  to  retreat;  but  as  he  looked 
once  more  toward  the  haunted  house  a  dim  light  appeared 
in  the  crack  of  a  closed  window,  and  presently  old  Jean 
Poquelin  came,  dragging  his  chair,  and  sat  down  close 
against  the  shining  cranny.  He  spoke  in  a  low,  tender  tone 
in  the  French  tongue,  making  some  inquiry.  An  answer 
came  from  within.  Was  it  the  voice  of  a  human?  So  un 
natural  was  it — so  hollow,  so  discordant,  so  unearthly — that 
the  stealthy  listener  shuddered  again  from  head  to  foot,  and 
when  something  stirred  in  some  bushes  near  by — though  it 
may  have  been  nothing  more  than  a  rat — and  came  scuttling 
through  the  grass,  the  little  Secretary  actually  turned  and 
fled.  As  he  left  the  enclosure  he  moved  with  bolder  leisure 
through  the  bushes;  yet  now  and  then  he  spoke  aloud:  "Oh, 
oh!  I  see,  I  understand!"  and  shut  his  eyes  in  his  hands. 

How  strange  that  henceforth  little  White  was  the  cham- 


404    THE  GREAT  MODERN  r AMERICAN  STORIES 

pion  of  Jean  Poquelin !  In  season  and  out  of  season — where- 
ever  a  word  was  uttered  against  him — the  Secretary,  with  a 
quiet,  aggressive  force  that  instantly  arrested  gossip,  de 
manded  upon  what  authority  the  statement  or  conjecture 
was  made;  but  as  he  did  not  condescend  to  explain  his  own 
remarkable  attitude,  it  was  not  long  before  the  disrelish  and 
suspicion  which  had  followed  Jean  Poquelin  so  many  years 
fell  also  upon  him. 

It  was  only  the  next  evening  but  one  after  his  adventure 
that  he  made  himself  a  source  of  sullen  amazement  to  one 
hundred  and  fifty  boys,  by  ordering  them  to  desist  from  their 
wanton  hallooing.  Old  Jean  Poquelin,  standing  and  shak 
ing  his  cane,  rolling  out  his  long-drawn  maledictions,  paused 
and  stared,  then  gave  the  Secretary  a  courteous  bow  and 
started  on.  The  boys,  save  one,  from  pure  astonishment, 
ceased  but  a  rumantly  little  Irish  lad,  more  daring  than 
any  had  yet  been,  threw  a  big  hurtling  clod  that  struck 
old  Poquelin  between  the  shoulders  and  burst  like  a  shell. 
The  enraged  old  man  wheeled  with  uplifted  staff  to  give 
chase  to  the  scampering  vagabond,  and,  he  may  have  tripped, 
or  he  may  not,  but  he  fell  full  length.  Little  White  hastened 
to  help  him  up,  but  he  waved  him  off  with  a  fierce  impreca 
tion  and  staggering  to  his  feet  resumed  his  way  homeward. 
His  lips  were  reddened  with  blood. 

Little  White  was  on  his  way  to  the  meeting  of  the  Board. 
He  would  have  given  all  he  dared  spend  to  have  staid  away, 
for  he  felt  both  too  fierce  and  too  tremulous  to  brook  the 
criticisms  that  were  likely  to  be  made. 

"I  can't  help  it,  gentlemen;  I  can't  help  you  to  make  a 
case  against  the  old  man,  and  I'm  not  going  to." 

"We  did  not  expect  this  disappointment,  Mr.  White." 

"I  can't  help  that,  sir.  No,  sir,  you  had  better  not  appoint 
any  more  investigations.  Somebody'll  investigate  himself  into 
trouble.  No.  sir,  it  isn't  a  threat,  it  is  only  my  advice,  but 
I  warn  you  that  whoever  takes  the  task  in  hand  will  rue  it  to 
his  dying  day — which  may  be  hastened,  too." 

The  President  expressed  himself  "surprised." 

"I  don't  care  a  rush,"  answered  little  White,  wildly  and 
foolishly.  "I  don't  care  a  rush  if  you  are,  sir.  No,  my 


JEAN -AH  POQUELIN  405 

nerves  are  not  disordered;  my  head's  as  clear  as  a  bell.  No, 
'I'm  not  excited." 

A  Director  remarked  that  the  Secretary  looked  as  though 
he  had  waked  from  a  nightmare. 

"Well,  sir,  if  you  want  to  know  the  fact,  I  have;  and  if 
you  choose  to  cultivate  old  Poquelin's  society  you  can  have 
one,  too." 

"White,"  called  a  facetious  member,  but  White  did  not 
notice.  "White,"  he  calkd  again. 

"What?"  demanded  White,  with  a  scowl. 

"Did  you  see  the  ghost?" 

'"Yes,  sir;  I  did,"  cried  White,  hitting  the  table,  and 
handing  the  President  a  paper  which  brought  the  Board  to 
other  business. 

The  story  got  among  the  gossips  that  somebody  (they 
were  afraid  to  say  little  White)  had  been  to  the  Poquelin 
mansion  by  night  and  beheld  something  appalling.  The 
rumor  was  but  a  shadow  of  the  truth,  magnified  and  distorted 
as  is  the  manner  of  shadows.  He  had  seen  skeletons  walk 
ing,  and  had  barely  escaped  the  clutches  of  one  by  making  the 
sign  of  the  cross. 

Some  madcap  boys  with  an  appetite  for  the  horrible 
plucked  up  courage  to  venture  through  the  dried  marsh  by 
the  cattle-path,  and  come  before  the  house  at  a  spectral  hour 
when  the  air  was  full  of  bats.  Something  which  they  but 
half  saw — half  a  sight  was  enough — sent  them  tearing  back 
through  the  willow-brakes  and  acacia  bushes  to  their  homes, 
where  they  fairly  dropped  down,  and  cried: 

"Was  it  white?"  "No — yes — nearly  so— we  can't  tell — 
but  we  saw  it."  And  one  could  hardly  doubt,  to  look  at 
their  ashen  faces,  that  they  had,  whatever  it  was. 

"If  that  old  rascal  lived  in  the  country  we  come  from," 
said  certain  Americains,  "he'd  have  been  tarred  and 
feathered  before  now,  wouldn't  he,  Sanders?" 

"Well,  now  he  just  would." 

"And  we'd  have  rid  him  on  a  rail,  wouldn't  we?" 

"That's  what  I  allow." 

"Tell  you  what  you  could  do."  They  were  talking  to 
some  rollicking  Creoles  who  had  assumed  an  absolute  neces- 


406   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

sity  for  doing  something.  "What  is  it  you  call  this  thing 
where  an  old  man  marries  a  young  girl,  and  you  come  out 
with  horns  and — " 

"Charivari?"  asked  the  Creoles. 

"Yes,  tha's  it.  Why  don't  you  shivaree  him?"  Felicitous 
suggestion. 

Little  White,  with  his  wife  beside  him,  was  sitting  on 
their  doorsteps  on  the  sidewalk,  as  Creole  custom  had  taught 
them,  looking  toward  the  sunset.  They  had  moved  into  the 
lately-opened  street.  The  view  was  not  attractive  on  the 
score  of  beauty.  The  houses  were  small  and  scattered,  and 
across  the  flat  commons,  spite  of  the  lofty  tangle  of  weeds 
and  bushes,  and  spite  of  the  thickets  of  acacia,  they  needs 
must  see  the  dismal  old  Poquelin  mansion,  tilted  awry  and 
shutting  out  the  declining  sun.  The  moon,  white  and  slender, 
was  hanging  the  tip  of  its  horn  over  one  of  the  chimneys. 

"And  you  say,"  said  the  Secretary,  "the  old  black  man  has 
been  going  by  here  alone?  Patty,  suppose  old  Poquelin 
should  be  concocting  some  mischief;  he  don't  lack  provoca 
tion;  the  way  that  clod  hit  him  the  other  day  was  enough 
to  have  killed  him.  Why,  Patty,  he  dropped  as  quick  as 
that!  No  wonder  you  haven't  seen  him.  I  wonder  if  they 
haven't  heard  something  about  him  up  at  the  drug-store. 
Suppose  I  go  and  see." 

"Do,"  said  his  wife. 

She  sat  alone  for  half  an  hour,  watching  that  sudden  going 
out  of  day  peculiar  to  the  latitude. 

"That  moon  is  ghost  enough  for  one  house,"  she  said,  as 
her  husband  returned.  "It  has  gone  right  down  the  chim 
ney." 

"Patty,"  said  little  White,  "the  drug-clerk  says  the  boys 
are  going  to  shivaree  old  Poquelin  to-night.  I'm  going  to 
try  to  stop  it." 

"Why,  White,"  said  his  wife,  "you'd  better  not.  You'll 
get  hurt." 

"No,  I'll  not." 

"Yes,  you  will." 

"I'm  going  to  sit  out  here  until  they  come  along.  They're 
compelled  to  pass  right  by  here." 


JEAN-AH  POQUELIN  407 

"Why,  White,  it  may  be  midnight  before  they  start;  you're 
not  going  to  sit  out  here  till  then." 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"Well,  you're  very  foolish,"  said  Mrs.  Whie  in  an  under 
tone,  looking  anxious,  and  tapping  one  of  the  steps  with  her 
foot. 

They  sat  a  very  long  time  talking  over  little  family  mat 
ters. 

"What's  that?"  at  last  said  Mrs.  White. 

"That's  the  nine-o'clock  gun,"  said  White,  and  they  re 
lapsed  into  a  long-sustained,  drowsy  silence. 

"Patty,  you'd  better  go  in  and  go  to  bed,"  said  he  at  last. 

"I'm  not  sleepy." 

"Well,  you're  very  foolish,"  quietly  remarked  little  White, 
and  again  silence  fell  upon  them. 

"Patty,  suppose  I  walk  out  to  the  old  house  and  see  if  I 
can  find  out  anything." 

"Suppose,"  said  she,  "you  don't  do  any  such — listen!" 

Down  the  street  arose  a  great  hubbub.  Dogs  and  boys 
were  howling  and  barking;  men  were  laughing,  shouting, 
groaning,  and  blowing  horns,  whooping,  and  clanking  cow 
bells,  whinnying,  and  howling,  and  rattling  pots  and  pans. 

"They  are  coming  this  way,"  said  little  White.  "You  had 
better  go  into  the  house,  Patty." 

"So  had  you." 

"No.    I'm  going  to  see  if  I  can't  stop  them." 

"Why,  White!" 

"I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,"  said  White,  and  went  toward 
the  noise. 

In  a  few  moments  the  little  Secretary  met  the  mob.  The 
pen  hesitates  on  the  word,  for  there  is  a  respectable  differ 
ence,  measurable  only  on  the  scale  of  the  half-century,  be 
tween  a  mob  and  a  charivari.  Little  White  lifted  his  inef 
fectual  voice.  He  faced  the  head  of  the  disorderly  column, 
and  cast  himself  about  as  if  he  were  made  of  wood  and 
moved  by  the  jerk  of  a  string.  He  rushed  to  one  who  seemed, 
from  the  size  and  clatter  of  his  tin  pan,  to  be  a  leader.  "Stop 
these  fellows,  Bienvenu,  stop  them  just  a  minute,  till  I  tell 
them  something."  Bienvenu  turned  and  brandished  his  in- 


408    THE  GREAT  MODERN,  AMERICAN  STORIES 

struments  of  discord  in  an  imploring  way  to  the  crowd. 
They  slackened  their  pace,  two  or  three  hushed  their  horns 
and  joined  the  prayer  of  little  White  and  Bienvenu  for 
silence.  The  throng  halted.  The  hush  was  delicious. 

"Bienvenu,"  said  little  White,  "don't  shivaree  old  Poquelin 
to-night;  he's" — 

"My  fwang,"  said  the  swaying  Bienvenu,  "who  tail  you  I 
goin'  to  chaliivahi  someoody,  eh  ?  You  sink  bickause  I  make 
a  little  playf ool  wiz  zis  tin  pan  zat  I  am  dhonk  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  Bienvenu,  old  fellow,  you're  all  right.  I  was 
afraid  you  might  not  know  that  old  Poquelin  was  sick, 
you  know,  but  you're  not  going  there,  are  you?'* 

"My  fwang,  I  vay  soy  to  tail  you  zat  you  ah  dhonk  as  de 
dev*.  I  am  shem  of  you.  I  ham  ze  servan'  of  ze  publique. 
Zese  citoyens  goin'  to  wickwest  Jean  Poquelin  to  give  to  the 
Ursuline'  two  hondred  fifty  dolla' — " 

"He  quoi!"  cried  a  listener,  "Cinq  cent  piastres,  oui!" 

"Oui!"  said  Bienvenu,  "and  if  he  wiffuse  we  make  him 
some  lit'  musique;  ta-ra-ta!"  He  hoisted  a  merry  hand  and 
foot,  then  frowning,  added:  "Old  Poquelin  got  no  bizniz 
dhink  s'much  w'isky." 

"But,  gentlemen,"  said  little  White,  around  whom  a  circle 
had  gathered,  "the  old  man  is  very  sick." 

"My  faith!"  cried  a  tiny  Creole,  "we  did  not  make  him  to 
be  sick.  W'en  we  have  say  we  going  make  le  charivari,  do 
you  want  that  we  hall  tell  a  lie?  My  faith!  'sfools!" 

"But  you  can  shivaree  somebody  else,"  said  desperate  little 
White. 

"Oui!"  cried  Bienvenu,  "et  chahivahi  Jean-ah  Poquelin 
tomo'w!" 

"Let  us  go  to  Madame  Schneider!"  cried  two  or  three,  and 
amid  huzzas  and  confused  cries,  among  which  was  heard  a 
stentorian  Celtic  call  for  drinks,  the  crowd  again  began  to 
move. 

"Cent  piastres  pour  I'hopital  de  charite!" 

"Hurrah!" 

"One  hondred  dolla'  for  Charity  Hospital !" 

"Hurrah!" 


JEAN -AH  POQUELIN  409 

"Whang!"  went  a  tin  pan,  the  crowd  yelled,  and  pande 
monium  gaped  again.  They  were  off  at  a  right  angle. 

Nodding,  Mrs.  White  looked  at  the  mantle-clock. 

"Well,  if  it  isn't  away  after  midnight." 

The  hideous  noise  down  street  was  passing  beyond  earshot. 
She  raised  a  sash  and  listened.  For  a  moment  there  was 
silence.  Some  one  came  to  the  door. 

"Is  that  you,  White  ?" 

"Yes."  He  entered.     "I  succeeded,  Patty/' 

"Did  you?"  said  Patty,  joyfully. 

"Yes.  They've  gone  down  to  shivaree  the  old  Dutch 
woman  who  married  her  step-daughter's  sweetheart.  They 
say  she  has  got  to  pay  a  hundred  dollars  to  the  hospital 
before  they  stop." 

The  couple  retired,  and  Mrs.  White  slumbered.  She  was 
awakened  by  her  husband  snapping  the  lid  of  his  watch. 

"What  time?"  she  asked. 

"Half-past  three.  Patty,  I  haven't  slept  a  wink.  Those 
fellows  are  out  yet.  Don't  you  hear  them?" 

"Why,  White,  they're  coming  this  way!" 

"I  know  they  are,"  said  White,  sliding  out  of  bed  and 
drawing  on  his  clothes,  "and  they're  coming  fast.  You'd 
better  go  away  from  that  window,  Patty.  My !  what  a 
clatter!" 

"Here  they  are,"  said  Mrs.  White,  but  her  husband  was 
gone.  Two  or  three  hundred  men  and  boys  passed  the  place 
at  a  rapid  walk  straight  down  the  broad,  new  street,  toward 
the  hated  house  of  ghosts.  The  din  was  terrific.  She  saw  little 
White  at  the  head  of  the  rabble  brandishing  his  arms  and 
trying  in  vain  to  make  himself  heard;  but  they  only  shook 
their  heads  laughing  and  hooting  the  louder,  and  so  passed, 
bearing  him  on  before  them. 

Swiftly  they  pass  out  from  among  the  houses,  away  from 
the  dim  oil  lamps  of  the  street,  out  into  the  broad  starlit 
commons,  and  enter  the  willowy  jungles  of  the  haunted 
ground.  Some  hearts  fail  and  their  owners  lag  behind  and 
turn  back,  suddenly  remembering  how  near  morning  it  is. 
But  the  most  part  push  on,  tearing  the  air  with  their  clamor. 

Down  ahead  of  them  in  the  long,  thicket-darkened  way 


4io   THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

there  is — singularly  enough — a  faint,  dancing  light.  It  must 
be  very  near  the  old  house ;  it  is.  It  has  stopped  now.  It  is 
a  lantern,  and  is  under  a  well-known  sapling  which  has 
grown  up  on  the  wayside  since  the  canal  was  filled.  Now 
it  swings  mysteriously  to  and  fro.  A  goodly  number  of  the 
more  ghost-fearing  give  up  the  sport;  but  a  full  hundred 
move  onward  at  a  run,  doubling  their  devlish  howling  and 
banging. 

Yes;  it  is  a  lantern,  and  there  are  two  persons  under  the 
tree.  The  crowd  draws  near— drops  into  a  walk;  one  of  the 
two  is  the  old  African  mute;  he  lifts  the  lantern  up  so  that 
it  shines  on  the  other;  the  crowd  recoils;  there  is  a  hush  of  all 
clangor,  and  all  at  once,  with  a  cry  of  mingled  fright  and 
horror  from  every  throat,  the  whole  throng  rushes  back,  drop 
ping  everything,  sweeping  past  little  White  and  hurrying  on, 
never  stopping  until  the  jungle  is  left  behind,  and  then  to 
find  that  not  one  in  ten  has  seen  the  cause  of  the  stampede, 
and  not  one  of  the  tenth  is  certain  what  it  was. 

There  is  one  huge  fellow  among  them  who  looks  capable  of 
any  villany.  He  finds  something  to  mount  on,  and,  in  the 
Creole  patois,  calls  a  general  halt.  Bienvenu  sinks  down, 
and,  vainly  trying  to  recline  gracefully,  resigns  the  leader 
ship.  The  herd  gather  round  the  speaker;  he  assures  them 
that  they  have  been  outraged.  Their  right  peaceably  to 
traverse  the  public  streets  has  been  trampled  upon.  Shall 
such  encroachments  be  endured?  It  is  now  daybreak.  Let 
them  go  now  by  the  open  light  of  day  and  force  a  free  passage 
of  the  public  highway. 

A  scattering  consent  was  the  response,  and  the  crowd, 
thinned  now  and  drowsy,  straggled  quietly  down  toward  the 
old  house.  Some  drifted  ahead,  others  sauntered  behind, 
but  every  one,  as  he  again  neared  the  tree,  came  to  a  stand 
still.  Little  White  sat  upon  a  bank  of  turf  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  way  looking  very  stern  and  sad.  To  each  new 
comer  he  put  the  same  question : 

"Did  you  come  here  to  go  to  old  Poquelin's?" 

"Yes." 

"He's  dead."  And  if  the  shocked  hearer  started  away  he 
would  say:  "Don't  go  away." 


JEAN- AH  POQUELIN  411 

"Why  not?" 

"I  want  you  to  go  to  the  funeral  presently." 

If  some  Louisianian,  too  loyal  to  dear  France  or  Spain 
to  understand  English,  looked  bewildered,  some  one  would 
interpret  for  him;  and  presently  they  went.  Little  White 
led  the  van,  the  crowd  trooping  after  him  down  the  middle 
of  the  way.  The  gate,  that  had  never  been  seen  before  un 
chained,  was  open.  Stern  little  White  stopped  a  short  dis 
tance  from  it;  the  rabble  stopped  behind  him.  Something 
was  moving  out  from  under  the  veranda.  The  many 
whisperers  stretched  upward  to  see.  The  African  mute  came 
very  slowly  toward  the  gate,  leading  by  a  cord  in  the  nose  a 
small  brown  bull,  which  was  harnessed  to  a  rude  cart.  On 
the  flat  body  of  the  cart,  under  a  black  cloth,  were  seen  the 
outlines  of  a  long  box. 

"Hats  off,  gentlemen,"  said  White,  as  the  box  came  in 
view,  and  the  crowd  solemnly  uncovered. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  little  White,  "here  comes  the  last  re 
mains  of  Jean  Marie  Poquelin,  a  better  man,  I'm  afraid,  with 
all  his  sins, — yes  a  better,  a  kinder  man  to  his  blood,  a  man 
of  more  self-forgetful  goodness — than  all  of  you  put  to 
gether  will  ever  dare  to  be." 

There  was  a  profund  hush  as  the  vehicle  came  creaking 
through  the  gate ;  but  when  it  turned  away  from  them  toward 
the  forest,  those  in  front  started  suddenly.  There  was  a  back 
ward  rush,  then  all  stood  still  again  staring  one  way;  for 
there,  behind  the  bier,  with  eyes  cast  down  and  labored  step, 
walked  the  living  remains — all  that  was  left — of  little  Jacques 
Poquelin,  the  long-hidden  brother — a  leper,  as  white  as  snow. 

Dumb  with  horror,  the  cringing  crowd  gazed  upon  the 
walking  death.  They  watched,  in  silent  awe,  the  slow  cortege 
creep  down  the  long,  straight  road  and  lessen  on  the  view, 
until  by  and  by  it  stopped  where  a  wild,  unfrequented  path 
branched  off  into  the  undergrowth  toward  the  rear  of  the 
ancient  city. 

"They  are  going  to  the  Terre  aux  Lepreux,"  said  one  in 
in  the  crowd.  The  rest  watched  them  in  silence. 

The  little  bull  was  set  free;  the  mute,  with  the  strength 
of  an  ape,  lifted  the  long  box  to  his  shoulder.  For  a  moment 


412    THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

more  the  mute  and  the  leper  stood  in  sight,  while  the  former 
adjusted  his  heavy  burden;  then,  without  one  backward 
glance  upon  the  unkind  human  world,  turning  their  faces 
toward  the  ridge  in  the  depths  of  the  swamp  known  as  the 
Leper's  Land,  they  stepped  into  the  jungle,  disappeared,  and 
were  never  seen  again. 


BRER  RABBIT,  BRER  FOX,  AND 
THE  TAR  BABY 

BY  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 

YESTERDAY  the  lady  whom  Uncle  Remus  calls  "Miss 
Sally"  missed  her  little  six-year-old.  Making  search 
for  him  through  the  house,  she  heard  the  sound  of 
voices  on  the  back  piazza,  and,  looking  through  the  window, 
saw  the  child  sitting  by  Uncle  Remus.  His  head  rested 
against  the  old  man's  arm,  and  he  was  gazing  with  an 
expression  of  the  most  intense  interest  into  the  rough, 
weather-beaten  face,  that  beamed  so  kindly  upon  him.  This 
is  what  "Miss  Sally"  heard: 

"Bimeby,  one  day,  arter  Mr.  Fox  bin  doin'  all  dat  he 
could  fer  ter  ketch  Mr.  Rabbit,  an'  Mr.  Rabbit  bin  doin'  all 
he  could  fer  to  keep  'im  fum  it,  Mr.  Fox  say  to  hisse'f  dat 
he'd  put  up  a  game  on  Mr.  Rabbit,  an*  he  hadn't  mo'n  got 
de  wuds  out'n  his  mouf  twell  Mr.  Rabbit  come  a  lopin'  up 
de  big  road  lookin'  ez  plump,  an'  ez  fat,  an*  ez  sassy  ez  a 
Morgan  hoss  in  a  barley-patch. 

"  'Hoi'  on  dar,  Brer  Rabbit,'  sez  Mr.  Fox,  sezee. 

"  'I  ain't  got  time,  Brer  Fox,'  sez  Mr.  Rabbit,  sezee,  sorter 
mendin'  his  licks. 

"  'But  I  wanter  have  some  confab  wid  you,  Brer  Rabbit,' 
sezee. 

"  'All  right,  Brer  Fox,  but  you  better  holler  fum  whar  you 
stan'.  I'm  monst'us  full  uv  fleas  dis  mawnin','  sezee. 

"  'I  seed  Brer  B'ar  yistiddy/  sez  Mr.  Fox,  sezee,  'en  he 
sorter  raked  me  over  de  coals  kaze  you  an'  me  didn't  make 
frens  an'  live  naberly,  an'  I  tole  'im  dat  I'd  see  you.' 

"Den  Mr.  Rabbit  scratch  one  year  wid  his  off  hinefoot 
sorter  jub'usly,  an'  den  he  ups  an'  sez,  sezee : 

"  'All  a  settin',  Brer  Fox.  Spose'n  you  drap  roun'  ter- 
morrer  an'  take  dinner  wid  me.  We  ain't  got  no  great  doin's 


414     THE  GREA  T  MODERN.  AMERICAN  STORIES 

at  our  house,  but  I  speck  de  old  'oman  an*  de  chilluns  kin 
sorter  scramble  roun'  an'  git  up  sump'n  fer  ter  stay  yo' 
stummuck.' 

"  'I'm  'gree'ble,  Brer  Rabbit,'  sez  Mr.  Fox,  sezee. 
'  'Den  I'll  'pen'  on  you,'  sez  Mr.  Rabbit,  sezee. 

"  Nex'  day,  Mr.  Rabbit  an'  Miss  Rabbit  got  up  soon,  'fo 
day,  an'  raided  on  a  gyarden  like  Miss  Sally's  out  dar,  an* 
got  some  cabbage,  an'  some  roas'n  years,  an'  some  sparrer- 
grass,  an'  dey  fixed  up  a  smashin'  dinner.  Bimeby  one  er 
de  little  Rabbits,  playing  out  in  de  back-yard,  come  runnin' 
in  hollerin',  'Oh,  ma!  oh,  ma!  I  seed  Mr.  Fox  a  comin'!' 
An'  den  Mr.  Rabbit  he  tuck  de  chilluns  by  dere  years  an* 
made  um  set  down,  an'  den  him  and  Miss  Rabbit  sorter 
dallied  roun'  waitin'  for  Mr.  Fox.  An'  dey  kep'  on  waitin', 
but  no  Mr.  Fox.  Arter  'while  Mr.  Rabbit  goes  to  de  do', 
easy  like,  an'  peep  out,  an'  dar,  stickin'  out  fum  behime  de 
cornder,  wuz  de  tip  eend  uv  Brer  Fox's  tail.  Den  Mr. 
Rabbit  shot  de  do'  an'  sot  down,  an'  put  his  paws  behine  his 
years  an'  begin  for  ter  sing : 

"'De  place  wharbouts  you  spill  de  grease, 

Right  dar  youer  boun'  ter  slide, 
An'  whar  you  fine  a  bunch  uv  ha'r, 
You'll  sholy  fine  de  hide. " 

"Nex'  day,  Brer  Fox  sont  word  by  Mr.  Mink  an*  skuse 
hisse'f  kaze  he  wuz  too  sick  fer  ter  come,  an'  he  ax  Mr. 
Rabbit  fer  to  come  an'  eat  dinner  wid  him,  an'  Mr.  Rabbit 
say  he  wuz  'gree'ble. 

"Bimeby,  when  de  shadders  wuz  at  dere  shortes',  Mr. 
Rabbit  he  sorter  bresh  up  an'  santer  down  unto  Mr.  Fox's 
house,  an'  when  he  got  dar,  he  hear  somebody  groanin',  an* 
he  look  in  de  door  an'  dar  he  see  Mr.  Fox  settin'  up  in  a 
rockin'  cheer  all  wrapped  up  wid  flannels,  an'  he  look 
mighty  weak.  Mr.  Rabbit  look  all  'roun',  but  he  don't  see  no 
dinner  De  dish-pan  was  settin'  on  de  table,  an'  close  by 
wuz  a  kyarvin'  knife. 

"  'Look  like  you  gwineter  have  chicken  fer  dinner,  Brer 
Fox,'  sez  Mr.  Rabbit,  sezee. 

"  'Yes,  Brer  Rabbit,  deyer  nice,  an'  fresh,  an'  tender,'  sez 
'Brer  Fox,  sezee. 


BRER  RABBIT,  BRER  FOX,  AND  TAR  BABY  415 

"Den  Mr.  Rabbit  sorter  pull  his  mustash  an'  sez:  'You 
ain't  got  no  calamus  root,  is  you,  Brer  Fox?  I  got  so  now 
that  I  can't  eat  no  chicken  'cept  she's  seasoned  up  wid 
calamus  root.'  An'  wid  dat  Mr.  Rabbit  lipt  out  er  de  do'  and 
dodged  'mong  de  bushes,  an'  sot  dar  watchin'  fer  Mr.  Fox; 
an'  he  didn't  watch  long,  nudder,  kaze  Mr.  Fox  flung  off  de 
flannels  an'  crope  out  er  de  house  an'  got  whar  he  could 
close  in  on  Mr.  Rabbit,  an'  bimeby  Mr.  Rabbit  hollered  out : 
'Oh,  Brer  Fox!  I'll  put  yo'  calamus  root  out  here  on  dis 
stump.  Better  come  git  it  while  hit's  fresh,'  and  wid  dat 
Mr.  Rabbit  galloped  off  home.  An'  Mr.  Fox  ain't  never 
cotch  'im  yet;  an'  w'at's  more,  honey,  he  ain't  gwineter." 

"Didn't  the  fox  never  catch  the  rabbit,  Uncle  Remus?" 
asked  the  little  boy  to  whom  the  old  man  delights  to  relate 
his  stories. 

"He  come  mighty  nigh  it,  honey,  sho's  you  bawn — Brer 
Fox  did.  One  day  atter  Brer  Rabbit  fool  'im  wid  dat 
calamus  root,  Brer  Fox  went  ter  wuk  en  got  'im  some  tar,  en 
mixt  it  wid  some  turkentime,  en  fixt  up  a  contrapshun  dat  he 
call  a  Tar  Baby,  en  he  tuck  dish  yer  Tar  Baby  en  sot  'er  in 
de  big  road,  den  he  laid  off  in  de  bushes  fer  to  see  wat  de 
news  wuz  gwine  to  be.  En  he  didn't  hatter  wait  long, 
nudder,  case  bimeby  here  come  Brer  Rabbit  pacin'  down  de 
road — lippity-clippity,  clippity-lippity — des  ez  sassy  ez  a 
hotel  nigger.  Brer  Fox,  he  lay  low.  Brer  Rabbit  come 
prancin'  'long  twell  he  spied  de  Tar  Baby,  en  den  he  fotch 
up  on  his  behime  legs  like  he  wuz  'stonished.  De  Tar 
Baby,  he  sot  dar,  en  Brer  Fox,  he  lay  low. 

"'Mawnin'!'  sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee.  'Nice  wedder  dis 
mawnin','  sezee. 

"Tar  Baby  ain't  sayin'  nothin',  en  Brer  Fox,  he  lay  low. 

"'How  duz  yo'  sym 'turns  seem  ter  segashuate?'  sez  Brer 
Rabbit,  sezee. 

"Brer  Fox,  he  wink  his  eye  slow,  en  lay  low,  en  de  Tar 
Baby,  he  ain't  saying  nuthin'. 

"  'How  you  come  on,  den?  Is  you  deaf?'  sez  Brer  Rabbit, 
sezee.  'Caze  if  you  is,  I  kin  Loller  louder,'  sezee. 

"Tar  Baby  lay  quiet,  en  Brer  Fox  he  lay  low. 

"  'Youer  stuck  up,  dat's  w'at  you  is,'  says  Brer  Rabbit^ 


416     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

sezee,  'en  I'm  gwine  to  kyore  you,  dat's  Vat  I'm  agwineter 
do,'  sezee. 

"Brer  Fox  he  sorter  chuckle  in  his  stummuck,  but  Tar 
Baby  ain't  sayin'  nothin'. 

"  'I'm  gwineter  larn  you  howter  talk  ter  'spectable  people 
ef  hit's  de  las'  ack,'  sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee.  'Ef  you  don't 
take  off  dat  hat  en  tell  me  howdy,  I'm  gwineter  bus'  you 
wide  open/  sezee. 

"Tar  Baby  stay  still,  en  Brer  Fox  he  lay  low. 

"Brer  Rabbit  keep  on  axin'  'im,  en  de  Tar  Baby  keep  on 
sayin'  nothin',  twell  present'y  Brer  Rabbit  drew  back  wid 
his  fis',  en  blip  he  tuck  him  side  er  de  head.  Right  dar's 
whar  he  broke  his  molasses  jug.  His  fis'  stuck,  en  he 
couldn't  pull  loose.  De  tar  hilt  'im. 

"  'If  you  don't  lemme  loose,  I'll  hit  you  agin,'  sez  Brer 
Rabbit,  sezee,  en  wid  dat  he  fotch  him  a  wipe  wid  de  udder 
ban',  en  dat  stuck.  Brer  Fox  he  lay  low. 

"  'Turn  me  loose,  fo'  I  kick  de  natal  stuffin'  outen  you,' 
sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee;  but  de  Tar  Baby  hilt  on,  en  den 
Brer  Rabbit  lose  de  use  un  his  feet  in  de  same  way.  Brer 
Fox,  he  lay  low.  Den  Brer  Rabbit  squalled  out  dat  ef  de 
Tar  Baby  didn't  turn  'im  loose  he'd  butt  him  cranksided. 
En  he  butted,  en  his  head  got  fastened.  Den  Brer  Fox,  he 
sa'ntered  fort',  lookin'  des  ez  innercent  ez  wunner  yo' 
mammy's  mockin'  birds. 

"  'Howdy,  Brer  Rabbit,'  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee.  'You  look 
sorter  stuck  up  dis  mawnin','  sezee,  en  den  he  rolled  on  de 
groun'  en  laft  en  laft  twell  he  couldn't  laugh  no  mo'.  'I 
speck  you'll  take  dinner  wid  me  dis  time,  Brer  Rabbit.  I 
done  laid  in  some  calamus  root,  en  I  ain't  gwinter  take  no 
skuse/  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee." 

Here  Uncle  Remus  paused,  and  drew  a  two-pound  yam 
out  of  the  ashes. 

"Did  the  fox  eat  the  rabbit?"  asked  the  little  boy  to  whom 
the  story  had  been  told. 

"Dat's  all  de  fur  de  tale  goes,"  replied  the  old  man.  "He 
mout,  en  den  again  he  moutent.  Some  say  Jedge  B'ar  come 
'long  en  loosed  'im — some  say  he  didn't.  I  hear  Miss  Sally 
callin'.  You  better  run  'long." 


BIOGRAPHY  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

ADE,  GEORGE  (1866-  ),  was  born  in  Kentland,  Indi 
ana.  He  is  a  graduate  of  Purdue  University,  of  which  he  be 
came  later  a  trustee.  His  first  newspaper  work  was  done  in 
Lafayette,  Indiana.  In  1890  he  went  to  Chicago,  where  he  was  a 
reporter  and  special  writer  for  The  Chicago  Dally  News  until 
1900.  He  has  taken  an  active  interest  in  politics  and  was  a  dele 
gate  to  the  Republican  National  Convention  in  1908.  He  now 
resides  on  a  farm  in  Indiana.  He  is  unmarried.  He  is  a  member 
of  the  National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters. 


Artie,  A  Story  of  the  Streets  and  Town  (1896)  ;  Pink  Marsh, 
A  Story  of  the  Streets  and  Town  (1897)  ;  Doc  Home  (1898) ; 
Fables  in  Slang  ( 1899)  ;  More  Fables  ( 1900)  ;  Forty  Modern 
Fables  (1901);  The  Girl  Proposition,  A  Bunch  of  He  and  She 
Fables  (1902)  ;  People  You  Know  (1903)  ;  Breaking  Into  So 
ciety  (1903);  "Circus  Day  (1903);  True  Bells  (1904);  In  Pas 
tures  New  (1906);  The  Slim  Princess  (1907);  Knocking  the 
Neighbors  (1912);  In  Babel,  Stories  of  Chicago  (1912);  Ade's 
Fables  (1914);  Hand-made  Fables  (1920). 

Operas  and  Plays:  The  Sultan  of  Sulu  (1902)  ;  The  County 
Chairman  (1903);  Peggy  from  Paris  (1903);  Sho-gun  (1904); 
The  College  Widow  (1904)  ;  The  Bad  Samaritan  (1905)  ;  Just 
Out  of  College  (1905)  ;  Marse  Covington  (1906)  ;  Mrs.  Peek- 
ham's  Carouse  (1906);  Father  and  the  Boys  (1907);  The  Fair 
Co-ed  (1908);  The  Old  Town  (1909);  Nettie  (1914). 

ALDRICH,  THOMAS  BAILEY  (1836-1907),  was  born  in 
Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire,  of  colonial  ancestry.  He  was 
taken  to  New  Orleans  to  live  until  he  was  nine.  While  he  was 
preparing  for  college  his  father  died  and  he  went  to  New  York 
to  work  in  his  uncle's  counting-room  from  1852-1855.  During 
this  time  he  wrote  a  little  verse.  He  secured  a  position  as 
proof-reader  for  a  publisher  and  later  became  a  reader.  He 
contributed  to  magazines — among  them  Putnam's,  The  Knicker 
bocker,  and  The  Evening  Mirror.  He  was  on  the  staff  of  The 
New  York  Home  Journal.  During  the  Civil  War  he  was  a  war 
correspondent  for  The  Tribune.  In  1865  he  was  married;  his 
only  children  were  two  sons,  twins.  From  1881-1890  he  was 
editor  of  The  Atlantic  Monthly.  After  retiring  from  this  posi 
tion  he  continued  to  live  in  Boston  until  his  death. 


Daisy's  Necklace   (1856)  ;  Out  of  His  Head,  A  Romance  In 

419 


420     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

Prose  (1862)  ;  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy  (1870)  ;  Marjorie  Daw 
and  Other  People  (1873);  Prudence  Palfrey,  a  Novel  (1874); 
The  Queen  of  Sheba  (1877);  The  Stillwater  Tragedy  (1880); 
From  Ponkapog  to  Pesth  (1883);  Merceded  (1883);  Pauline 
Pavlovna,  A  Drama  in  One  Act;  An  Old  Town  by  the  Sea 
(1893)  ;  Two  Bites  at  a  Cherry  and  Other  Tales  (1894)  ;  Judith 
and  Holof  ernes,  A  Poem  (1896)  ;  Poems,  in  2  vols.  (1901)  ; 
Ponkapog  Papers  (1903)  ;  A  Sea  Turn  and  Other  Matters;  The 
Sister's  Tragedy. 

BIERCE,  AMBROSE  (1842-?),^^  born  in  Mieggs  County, 
Ohio.  His  father  was  a  farmer.  He  served  throughout  the 
Civil  War  and  was  brevetted  major  for  distinguished  service. 
In  1866  he  edited  The  News  Letter,  San  Francisco.  He  spent 
several  years  in  London,  where  he  was  associated  with  London 
Fun  and  edited  a  paper  called  The  Lantern,  which  was  financed 
by  the  ex-Empress  Eugenie  of  France.  In  1876  he  returned  to 
California.  He  edited  successively  The  Argonaut  and  The  Wasp 
and  contributed  to  The  Examiner  and  The  Overland  Monthly. 
He  made  daring  and  bitter  personal  attacks  in  his  writings.  In 
the  eighties  he  wrote  many  short  stories,  a  great  number  of 
which  were  ghost  stories.  He  lived  for  several  years  in  Wash 
ington,  D.  C.  In  1914  he  went  to  Mexico  to  fight  with  Villa 
and  has  never  been  heard  from  since. 

An  edition  of  his  collected  works  has  been  published  by  the 
Neale  Publishing  Co. 

In  the  Midst  of  Life,  Stories  of  Soldiers  and  Civilians  (1891)  ; 
The  Monk  and  the  Hangman's  Daughter  (1892);  Black  Beetles 
in  Amber  (Poems)  (1892)  ;  Can  Such  Things  Be?  (1894)  J  Fan 
tastic  Fables  (1899);  Shapes  of  Clay  (Verse)  (1903);  The 
Cynic's  Word  Book  (1906)  ;  The  Shadow  on  the  Dial  (1909)  ; 
Write  it  Right  (1909);  V.  I,  Ashes  of  the  Beacon,  The  Land 
Beyond  the  Blow,  For  the  Ahkoond,  John  Smith,  Liberator, 
Bits  of  Autobiography;  V.  7,  The  Devil's  Dictionary;  V.  8, 
Negligible  Tales;  V.  9,  Tangential  Views;  V.  10,  The  Opinion- 
ator,  The  Reviewer,  The  Controversialist,  The  Timorous  Re 
porter,  The  March  Hare;  V.  n,  Antepenultimate;  V.  12,  In  Mot 
ley:  Wings  of  Beasts. 

BROWN,  ALICE  (1857-  ),  was  born  at  Hampton  Falls, 
New  Hampshire,  of  a  family  of  farmers.  She  was  educated 
in  the  little  district  school  near  her  father's  farm  and  later  at 
a  seminary  in  Exeter.  She  taught  school  for  several  years — 
in  the  country  and  in  Boston — hating  it  every  minute.  She 
gave  up  this  profession  for  writing,  which  she  had  always 
wished  to  do.  Her  first  contributions  were  to  The  Christian 
Register  and  The  Youth's  Companion.  Many  of  her  stories 


BIOGRAPHY  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHY          421 

have  appeared  in  The  Atlantic  and  in  Harper's.  In  1915  her 
play — Children  of  Earth — received  the  $10,000  prize  offered  by 
Winthrop  Ames.  Miss  Brown  now  lives  on  her  farm  in  New 
Hampshire. 

Meadow-grass,  Tales  of  New  England  Life  (1895)  ;  The  Rose 
of  Hope  (1896)  ;  The  Day  of  His  Youth  (1897)  ;  Tiverton  Tales 
(1899);  King's  End  (1901);  Margaret  Warrener  (1901);  The 
County  Road  (1906);  The  Court  of  Love  (1906);  High  Noon 
(1906);  Life  of  Mercy  Otis  Warren  (1006);  Paradise  (1906); 
The  Mannerings  (1906);  Rose  MacLeod  (1908);  The  Story  of 
Thyrza  (1909);  Country  Neighbors  (1910);  John  Winter- 
bourne's  Family  (1910);  The  One-Footed  Fairy  (1911);  My 
Love  and  I  (1912)  ;  The  Secret  of  the  Clan  (1912)  ;  Robin 
Hood's  Barn  (1913);  Vanishing  Points  (1913);  Joint  Owners 
in  Spain,  A  Comedy  in  One  Act  (1914)  ;  Children  of  Earth,  A 
Play  of  New  England  (1915);  The  Prisoner  (1916);  Bromley 
Neighborhood  (1917)  ;  The  Road  to  Castaly  and  Later  Poems 
(1917)  ;  The  Flying  Teuton  and  Other  Stories  (1918)  ;  By  Oak 
and  Thorn  (English  Travels);  Fools  of  Nature;  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson  (with  Louise  Imogen  Guiney). 

CABLE,  GEORGE  WASHINGTON  (1844-  ),  was  born 
in  New  Orleans,  where  the  scene  of  many  of  his  stories  is  laid. 
He  was  educated  in  the  public  schools.  He  has  received  hon 
orary  degrees  from  Yale,  Bowdoin,  Washington  and  Lee.  Dur 
ing  the  Civil  War  he  served  in  a  cavalry  troop  for  the  Con 
federacy.  After  the  war  he  became  a  reporter  on  The  New 
Orleans  Picayune  and  remained  with  the  paper  until  1879.  He 
was  the  founder  of  the  Home  Culture  Clubs,  now  known  as 
the  Northampton  People's  Institute,  designed  as  a  means  of 
self-education  for  working  people.  He  has  both  lectured  and 
written  for  these  clubs.  He  is  a  member  of  the  Simplified 
Spelling  Board  and  the  American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters. 
Since  1886  he  has  lived  at  Northampton,  Massachusetts.  Many 
of  his  stories  have  been  contributed  to  Scribner's. 


Old  Creole  Days  (1879)  ;  The  Grandissimes  (1880)  ;  Madame 
Delphine  (1881)  ;  Social  Statistics  of  Cities,  History  and  Pres 
ent  Conditions  of  New  Orleans  and  Report  on  the  City  of 
Austin,  Texas  (1881)  ;  The  Creoles  of  Louisiana  (1884);  Dr. 
Sevier  (1884);  Professional  Christianity  (1885);  The  Silent 
South  (1885);  Bonaventure  (1888);  Strange  True  Stories  of 
Louisiana  (1889)  ;  The  Negro  Question  (1890)  ;  John  Marsh, 
Southerner  (1894)  ;  Famous  Adventures  and  Prison  Escapes  of 
the  Civil  War  (G.  W.  Cable  and  other  authors)  (1896)  ;  Strong 
Hearts  (1899);  The  Cavalier  (1001)  ;  Bylow  Hill  (1002);  Kin- 
caid's  Battery  (1908)  ;  Posson  Jone  and  Pere  Rapheal  (1909)  ; 
The  Amateur  Garden  (1914);  Gideon's  Band  (1914). 


422     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

DREISER,  THEODORE  (1871-  ),  was  born  in  Terre 
Haute,  Indiana;  educated  in  the  public  schools  and  Indiana 
University.  He  first  wrote  for  newspapers.  Going  to  Chicago 
in  1892,  he  wrote  for  The  Chicago  Daily  Globe,  He  was  editor 
of  Every  Month  (a  literary  and  musical  magazine)  from  1895-8. 
Later  he  became  a  special  magazine  writer,  contributing  to 
Harpers,  McClure's,  Century,  Cosmopolitan,  and  Munsey's.  In 
1905-6  he  was  editor  of  Smith's  Magazine;  in  1906-7  of  The 
Broadway  Magazine;  1907-10  editor-in-chief  of  the  Butterick 
publications,  including  The  Delineator,  Designer,  New  Idea,  and 
English  Delineator. 

Sister  Carrie  (1900)  ;  Jennie  Gerhardt,  A  Novel  (1911)  ;  The 
Financier,  A  Novel  (1912)  ;  A  Traveller  at  Forty  (1913)  ;  The 
Titan  (1914);  The  "Genius"  (1915);  Plays  of  the  Natural  and 
Supernatural  (The  Girl  in  the  Coffin,  The  Blue  Sphere,  Laugh 
ing  Gas,  In  the  Dark,  The  Spring  Recital,  The  Light  in  the 
Window,  "Old  Ragpicker")  (1916)  ;  A  Hoosier  Holiday  (1916)  ; 
The  Hand  of  the  Potter,  A  Tragedy  (1917);  Free  and  Other 
Stories  (1918);  Twelve  Men  (1919) ;  Hey  Rub-a-Dub-Dub 
(1920);  The  Bulwark  (in  preparation). 

FREEMAN,  MARY  E.  WILKINS  (1862-  ),  was  born 
at  Randolph,  Massachusetts.  She  was  educated  at  Mt.  Holyoke 
Seminary.  When  she  began  writing  for  magazines  she  had  an 
immediate  success.  Her  first  stories  and  poems  were  for  chil 
dren.  Many  of  her  short  stories  have  appeared  first  in  Harper's 
Magazine.  In  1902  she  married  Dr.  Charles  M.  Freeman  of 
Metuchen,  N.  J.,  and  has  resided  there  since  her  marriage. 

A  Humble  Romance  and  Other  Stories  ( 1887)  ;  A  New  Eng 
land  Nun  and  Other  Stories    (1891);   Young  Lucretia    (1892); 
Jane   Field    (18192);   Jiles   Corey    (1893);    Pembroke,   A    Novel 
'1894);  Madelon  (1896);  Jerome,  a  Poor  Man  (1897);  Silence 
1898)  ;   Evelina's  Garden    (1899)  ;  The  Love   of   Parson   Lord 
;i90o);  The  Heart's  Highway    (1900);  The  Portion  of  Labor 
1901);  Understudies,  Short  Stories  (1901);  Six  Trees  (1903); 
"he  Wind  in  the  Rose  Bush  (1903)  ;  The  Givers,  Short  Stories 
(1904);  Doc  Gordon  (1906);  The  People  of  Our  Neighborhood 
(1006);   By  the  Light  of  the   Soul    (1907);  The  Shoulders  of 
Atlas    (1908);    The   Winning   Lady    (1909);   The   Green   Door 
(1910);  The  Butterfly  House  (1912);  Yates  Pride   (1912);  The 
Copy-Cat  and  Other  Stories  (1914)  ;  The  Jamesons ;  The  Debtor ; 
The  Fair  Lavinia. 

FULLER,  HENRY  B.  (1857-  ),  was  born  in  Chicago, 
of  New  England  parents.  His  first  two  books  were  set  in  Euro 
pean  backgrounds.  His  third  book,  "The  Cliff -dwellers,"  deals 
with  conditions  in  the  slums  of  Chicago. 


BIOGRAPHY  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHY          423 

The  Chevalier  of  Pensiere-Vani  (1890)  ;  The  Chatelaine  of 
La  Trinite  (1892);  The  Cliff-Dwellert  (1893);  With  the  Pro 
cession  (1895);  The  Puppet-Booth,  Twelve  Plays  (1896);  From 
the  Other  Side:  Stories  of  Transatlantic  Travel  (1898);  The 
Last  Refuge  (1900);  Under  the  Skylights  (1901)  ;  Waldo  Trench 
and  Others  ( 1908) ;  Lines,  Long  and  Short — Biographical 
Sketches  in  Various  Rhymes  (1917);  On  the  Stairs  (1918); 
Bertram  Cope's  Year  (1919). 


GARLAND,  HAMLIN.  (1860-  ),  was  born  in  West  Sa 
lem,  Wisconsin,  and  was  educated  in  private  schools — between 
school  terms  he  worked  on  the  farm.  He  lived  for  a  time  in 
Iowa,  where  the  scene  of  his  story,  "Boy  Life  on  the  Prairie," 
and  other  stories  is  laid.  From  time  to  time  he  taught  school. 
He  tramped  through  the  eastern  states.  He  took  up  a  land 
claim  in  Dakota,  but  remained  there  only  a  short  time,  remov 
ing  to  Boston.  He  studied  and  taught  English  and  American 
literature  in  the  Boston  School  of  Oratory.  In  1893  he  went  to 
Chicago.  He  was  married  in  1899  and  now  lives  in  New  York. 
He  is  a  member  of  the  American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters. 

Main-Travelled  Roads  (1890)  ;  Jason  Edwards  (1891)  ;  A  Lit 
tle  Norsk  (1891);  A  Member  of  the  Third  House  (1892); 
Prairie  Folk  (1892);  A  Spoil  of  Office  (1892);  Crumbling 
Idols  (1894);  Prairie  Songs  (1894);  Rose  of  Butcher's  Cooly 
(1895)  ;  Wayside  Courtships  (1897)  ;  The  Spirit  of  Sweet  Water 
(1898);  Ulysses  S.  Grant:  His  Life  and  Character  (1898); 
The  Eagle's  Heart  (1900);  Her  Mountain  Lover  (1901);  The 
Captain  of  the  Gray  Horse  Troop  (1902)  ;  Hesper  (1903)  ;  Light 
of  the  Star  (1904);  The  Tyranny  of  the  Dark  (1905);  Boy 
Life  on  the  Prairie  (1907);  The  Long  Trail  (1907);  Money 
y[agic  (1907)  ;  The  Shadow  World  (1908)  ;  Cavanaugh  Forest 
Ranger  (1909);  Victor  Olnee's  Discipline  (1911);  Other  Main- 
Travelled  Roads  (1913);  A  Son  of  the  Middle  Border  (1917). 


HALE,  EDWARD  EVERETT  (1822-1909),  was  born  in 
Boston,  where  he  always  lived.  He  was  educated  in  private 
schools  and  at  Harvard,  where  he  was  graduated  in  1839.  For 
two  years  he  taught  school  while  reading  theses  in  preparation 
for  becoming  a  Congregationalist  minister.  After  six  years  of 
work  he  received  charge  of  a  church  in  Worcester.  Later  he 
was  the  minister  of  the  South  Congregational  (Unitarian) 
Church  of  Boston.  He  was  active  in  organizing  societies  to 
broaden  the  scope  of  the  church.  For  some  time  he  was  the 
editor  of  The  Daily  Advertiser,  of  which  he  was  South  Amer 
ican  editor.  In  this  work  he  became  an  authority  on  Spanish- 


424     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

American  history.  As  a  boy  he  had  learned  to  set  type  in  the 
office  of  this  paper,  which  was  owned  by  his  father,  and  had 
also  been  a  reporter  on  it.  Other  papers  of  which  he  was  editor 
were:  The  Christian  Examiner,  The  Sunday  School  Gazette, 
Lend  a  Hand,  and  Old  and  New.  This  last  paper  ran  for  only 
six  years  after  it  was  founded  in  1869,  and  then  merged  into 
Scribner's  monthly.  His  first  published  story  was  "My  Double 
and  How  He  Undid  Me,"  which  appeared  in  The  Atlantic  in  1859. 

Collected  works  published  by  Little,  Brown  &  Company. 

The  Rosary  (1848)  ;  Margaret  Percival  in  America  (1850)  ; 
Sketches  of  Christian  History  (1850)  ;  Letters  on  Irish  Emi 
gration  (1852);  Kansas  and  Nebraska  (1854);  Ninety  Days 
Worth  of  Europe  (1861)  ;  The  Man  Without  a  Country  (1863)  ; 
The  President's  Words  (with  Rev.  John  Williams)  (1865)  ; 
If,  Yes  and  Perhaps  (1868);  Puritan  Politics  in  England  and 
New  England  (1869);  The  Ingham  Papers  (1869);  How  To 
Do  It  (1870);  His  Level  Best  and  Other  Stories  (1870);  Daily 
Bread  and  Other  Stories  (1870)  ;  Ups  and  Downs,  An  Every 
Day  Novel  (1871);  Sybaris,  and  Other  Homes  (1871);  Christ 
mas  Eve  and  Christmas  Day  (1874);  In  His  Name  (1874); 
A  Summer's  Vacation:  Four  Sermons  (1874);  Workingmen's 
Homes,  Essays  and  Stories  (1874)  ;  The  Good  Time  Coming 
or  Our  New  Crusade  (1875);  One  Hundred  Years  (1875); 
Philip  Nolan's  Friends  (1876);  Back  to  Back  (1877);  Gone  to 
Texas,  or  the  Wonderful  Adventures  of  a  Pullman  (1877) ; 
What  Career?  (1878);  Mrs!  Merriam's  Scholars  (1878);  The 
Life  in  Common  (1879)  ;  The  Bible  and  Its  Revision  (1879) ; 
The  Kingdom  of  God  (1880);  Crusoe  in  New  York  (1880); 
Stories  of  War  (1880);  June  to  May  (1881)  ;  Stories  of  the 
Sea  (1881)  ;  Stories  of  Adventure  (1881)  ;  Stories  of  Discovery 
(1883);  Seven  Spanish  Cities  (1883);  Fortunes  of  Rachel 
(1884)  ;  Christmas  in  a  Palace  (1884)  ;  Christmas  at  Narragan- 
sett  (1884)  ;  Stories  of  Invention  (1885)  ;  Easter  (1886);  Frank 
lin  in  France  (1887);  The  Life  of  Washington  (1887);  The 
History  of  the  United  States;  Poems;  The  Story  of  Massa 
chusetts;  If  Jesus  Came  to  Boston;  James  Russell  Lowell  and 
His  Friends;  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson;  Historic  Boston  and  Its 
Neighborhood;  The  Foundations  of  the  Republic;  Curtis,  Whit- 
tier,  and  Longfellow;  Tarry  at  Home  Travels;  Tom  Torrey's 
Tariff  Talks;  We,  the  People:  a  Series  of  Papers  on  Topics  of 
To-day  ^(1903). 

Contributions  to:  Proceedings  of  the  American  Antiquarian 
Society;  The  American  Peace  Society,  Boston;  The  American 
Unitarian  Association. 

HARRIS,  JOEL  CHANDLER  (1848-1908),  was  born  in 
Eatonton,  Georgia.  When  he  was  twelve  years  old  he  became 


BIOGRAPHY  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHY          425 

a  printer's  boy.  His  employer,  who  owned  a  fine  library,  per 
mitted  him  to  read  what  he  wished  in  it.  The  boy  saw  much 
of  the  negroes  on  the  estate  of  the  editor  and  owner  of  the 
paper,  talked  to  them,  and  listened  to  their  tales.  In  1864  his 
employer  fled  from  the  invasion  of  Sherman's  army,  leaving 
Harris,  sixteen  years  old,  in  charge  of  the  paper,  The  Coun 
tryman.  He,  however,  soon  decided  to  move  to  the  city ;  he 
wrote  for  papers  in  Macon  and  Forsyth,  Georgia,  in  New 
Orleans,  and  in  Savannah.  In  Savannah  he  was  on  the  staff 
of  The  Daily  News  until  he  was  made  editor  of  The  Atlanta 
Constitution,  in  1876,  where  he  remained  for  twenty-five  years. 
He  began  writing  his  negro  stories  for  that  paper.  Toward 
the  end  of  his  life  he  edited  a  magazine  which  he  called  Uncle 
Remus'  Home  Magazine.  He  was  married  in  1873  to  Miss  LaRue 
of  Canada. 


Uncle  Remus :  His  Songs  and  Sayings  ( 1880)  ;  Nights  with 
Uncle  Remus  (1883)  ;  Mingo  and  Other  Sketches  in  Black  and 
White  (1884);  Free  Jo  and  Other  Georgian  Sketches  (1887); 
Balaam  and  His  Master  and  Other  Sketches  and  Stories  (1891)  ; 
Uncle  Remus  and  His  Friends  (1892);  Little  Mr.  Thimble 
Finger  and  His  Queer  Country  (1894)  J  Daddy  Jake,  the  Run 
away,  and  Short  Stories  Told  After  Dark  (1896)  ;  Georgia  from 
the  Invasion  of  De  Soto  to  Recent  Times  (1896)  ;  Stories  of 
Georgia  (1896)  ;  On  the  Plantation,  a  Story  of  a  Georgia  Boy's 
Adventures  During  the  War  (1897)  ;  Aaron  in  the  Wild  Woods 
(1897);  Tales  of  the  Home  Folks  in  Peace  and  War  (1898); 
The  Chronicles  of  Aunt  Minervy  Anne  (1899);  Plantation  Pa 
geants  (1899)  ;  The  Tar  Baby  and  Other  Rhymes  of  Uncle 
Remus  (1904)  ;  Told  by  Uncle  Remus— New  Stories  of  the  Old 
Plantation  (1906). 

HARTE,  FRANCIS  BRET  (1839-1902),  was  born  in  Al 
bany,  New  York.  His  father  was  a  school  teacher.  He  was 
educated  in  the  public  schools.  When  he  was  fifteen  he  went 
to  California,  where  he  lived  in  remote  mountain  settlements. 
He  started  a  school,  but  it  was  a  failure.  He  became  a  com 
positor  at  Eureka.  He  was  a  miner,  and  for  a  time  an  express 
messenger.  In  1857  he  went  to  San  Francisco  to  work  as  a 
compositor.  While  engaged  in  this  work  the  attention  of  the 
editor  of  the  paper  for  which  he  worked  was  attracted  by 
some  of  his  sketches  and  he  printed  some  of  them.  Harte  was 
appointed  secretary  of  the  U.  S.  Mint  in  San  Francisco,  and 
while  holding  this  position  wrote  stories,  sketches  and  poems. 
In  1868  he  was  made  the  first  editor  of  The  Overland  Monthly. 
His  first  contribution  was  "The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,"  of 
which  the  other  editors  of  the  magazine  staff  disapproved.  He 
insisted  that  it  be  published — immediately  it  attracted  much  at 
tention  throughout  the  country.  In  1870  he  was  appointed  pro- 


426     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 


fessor  of  literature  in  the  University  of  California,  but  he  held 
the  position  for  one  year  only  before  moving  to  New  York. 
He  contributed  regularly  to  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  In  the  early 
eighties  he  entered  the  consular  service;  he  was  stationed  for 
two  years  in  Germany,  and  for  five  years  at  Glasgow,  Scotland. 

His  complete  works  are  published  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

Condensed  Novels  (1867) ;  Poems  (1870) ;  The  Luck  of  Roar 
ing  Camp  and  Other  Sketches  (1871)  ;  East  and  West  Poems 
(1871)  ;  Poetical  Works  (1873);  Mrs.  Skagg's  Husbands  (1873)  ; 
Echoes  of  the  Foot  Hills  (1874)  ;  Tales  of  the  Argonauts 
(1875);  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar  (1876);  Thankful  Blossom 
(1876)  ;  The  Story  of  a  Mine  (1877)  ;  Drift  from  Two  Shores 
(1878)  ;  The  Twins  of  Table  Mountain  (1879)  ;  Flip,  and  Found 
at  Blazing  Star  (1882);  In  the  Carquinez  Woods  (1883);  On 
the  Frontier  (1884);  By  Shore  and  Sedge  (1885);  Maruja,  a 
Novel  (1885)  ;  Snowbound  .at  Eagle's  (1886)  ;  A  Millionaire  of 
Rough  and  Ready  (1887)  ;  The  Queen  of  the  Pirate  Isle  (1887)  ; 
The  Argonauts  of  North  Liberty  (1888);  A  Phyllis  of  the 
Sierras  (1888) ;  Cressy  (1889) ;  The  Heritage  of  Dedlow  Marsh 
( 1889) ;  A  Waif  of  the  Plains  ( 1890) ;  Condensed  Novels 
(1902). 

JAMES,  HENRY  (1843-1916),  was  born  in  New  York  City. 
His  father  was  a  well-known  theological  writer  of  the  Sweden- 
borgian  sect.  Henry  James  was  educated  for  the  most  part 
in  Europe — in  Geneva,  Paris,  Boulogne-sur-mer.  He  studied 
law  at  the  Tiarvard  Law  School.  After  1869  he  made  his  home 
in  England  with  the  exception  of  the  years  1874-5,  when  he  was 
a  member  of  the  editorial  staff  of  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  to 
which  he  contributed  many  of  his  short  stories.  A  large  number 
of  his  novels  appeared  first  in  serial  form  in  Harper's,  The 
Atlantic,  Cornhill  Magazine  (English). 

Poor  Richard  (1867);  Gabrielle  de  Bergerac  (1869);  Watch 
and  Ward  (1871);  Roderick  Hudson  (1871);  Trans-Atlantic 
Sketches  (1875);  A  Passionate  Pilgrim  and  Other  Stories 
(1875);  The  American  (1878);  Daisy  Miller  (1878);  An  Inter 
national  Episode  (1878);  The  Europeans  (1878);  Pension  Beau- 
repas  (1878);  French  Poets  and  Novelists  (1878);  Hawthorne, 
in  English  Men  of  Letters  Series;  Confidance  (1879)  ;  Washing 
ton  Square  (1880);  A  Bundle  of  Letters  (1880);  Diary  of  a 
Man  of  Fifty  (1880);  The  Portrait  of  a  Lady  (1881)  ;  The 
Siege  of  London  (1883);  Portraits  of  Places  (1884);  A  Little 
Tour  in  France  (1884);  Tales  of  Three  Cities  (1884);  The 
Author  of  Beltraffio  (1885);  The  Bostonians  (1886);  Princess 
Casamassima  (1881);  Partial  Portraits  (1888);  The  Reverbera 
tor  (1888);  A  London  Life  (1889);  The  Tragic  Muse  (1890); 


BIOGRAPHY  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHY          427 

Theatricals — Two  Comedies — Tenants  Disengaged  ( 1894)  ;  Ter 
minations  (1896);  The  Spoils  of  Poynton  (1897);  The  Other 
House  (1897)  ;  What  Maysie  Knew  (1897)  ;  In  the  Cage  (i8t>8)  ; 
The  Two  Magics  (1898)  ;  The  Awkward  Age  (1899);  The  Soft 
Side  (1900)  ;  The  Sacred  Fount  (1901)  ;  The  Wings  of  a  Dove 
(1902);  The  Better  Sort  (1903);  The  Question  of  Our  Speech 
and  the  Lesson  of  Balzac:  Two  Lectures  (1905);  The  Ameri 
can  Scene  (1906)  ;  Views  and  Reviews  (1908)  ;  Italian  Hours 
(1909);  Julia  Bride  (1009);  The  Finer  Grain  (1910);  The 
Outcry  (1911);  A  Small  Boy  and  Others  (1913);  Notes  on 
Novelists  with  Some  Other  Notes  (1914);  Within  the  Rim  and 
Other  Essays  (1914)  ;  Notes  of  a  Son  and  Brother  (1914)  ;  The 
Question  of  the  Mind  (1915)  ;  The  Ivory  Tower  (Unfinished 
1918)  ;  The  Sense  of  the  Past  (Unfinished  1918)  ;  Travelling 
Companions  (1919);  A  Landscape  Painter  (1919);  The  Golden 
Bowl. 

Other  short  stories  reprinted  in  collected  works  edited  by 
Chas.  Scribner's  Sons:  including  The  Turn  of  the  Screw;  The 
Madonna  of  the  Future. 

JEWETT,  SARAH  ORME  (1849-1909),  was  born  in  South 
Berwick,  Maine,  of  New  England  ancestry.  Her  father  was  a 
country  doctor,  and  in  making  his  professional  calls  he  fre 
quently  took  his  daughter  with  him.  In  that  way  she  became 
acquainted  with  many  New  England  types  of  whom  she  wrote. 

Deephaven  (1877);  Country  Byways  (1881)  ;  A  Marsh  Island 
(1885);  A  White  Heron  and  Other  Stories  (1886);  The  King 
of  Folly  Island  and  Other  People  (1888)  ;  Strangers  and  Way 
farers  (1890);  Tales  of  New  England  (1892);  A  Native  of 
Wimby  and  Other  Tales  (1893);  The  Country  of  the  Pointed 
Firs  (1896);  The  Normans  (1901);  Play  Days,  a  Book  of 
Stories  for  Children  (1906)  ;  Letters  of  Sarah  Orme  Jewett 
(edited  by  A.  Fields)  (1911). 

OILMAN,  CHARLOTTE  PERKINS  (STETSON)  (1860- 
),  was  born  in  Hartford,  Connecticut,  a  descendant  of 
Lyman  Beecher.  She  has  been  twice  married,  first  in  1884  to 
C.  W.  Stetson,  and  second  in  1900  to  George  H.  Gilman  of 
New  York.  In  1890  she  became  a  lecturer  on  ethics,  econom 
ics,  and  sociology  and  spoke  throughout  this  country  and  abroad. 
She  also  contributed  to  magazines.  She  is  chiefly  interested 
in  labor  problems  and  the  advance  of  women.  In  1909  she 
founded  The  Forerunner,  of  which  she  was  the  editor  until 
it  was  discontinued.  She  is  a  member  of  the  American  Academy 
of  Political  and  Social  Science,  and  the  American  Sociological 
Association. 


Woman    and    Economics    (1898)  ;    In    This    Our   World,   and 


428     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

Other  Poems  (1898);  The  Yellow  Wall-Paper  (1899);  Concern 
ing  Children  (1900);  The  Home:  Its  Work  and  Influence 
(1903);  Human  Work  (1904);  The  Man-Made  World,  or  Our 
Androcentric  Culture  (1910)  ;  What  Diantha  Did,  a  Novel 
(1910);  The  Crux  (1911);  Moving  the  Mountain  (1911);  also 
pamphlets  on  the  woman  question  published  by  the  National 
American  Woman  Suffrage  Association. 

SPpFFORD,  HARRIET  PRESCOTT  (1835-  ),  was 
born  in  Maine,  but  moved  to  Massachusetts  when  a  child  and 
went  to  school  in  Newburyport,  where  she  lived.  Her  first  story 
attracted  much  attention  when  it  appeared  in  The  Atlantic 
Monthly.  It  was  a  tale  of  Paris,  although  the  young  authoress 
had  never  been  outside  of  New  England.  The  editor  suspected 
it  of  being  a  translation  but  was  reassured  of  its  genuineness 
by  Mr.  T.  W.  Higginson,  at  that  time  pastor  of  the  church 
Miss  Prescott  attended.  In  1865  Miss  Prescott  married  Mr. 
Spofford,  a  prominent  lawyer  of  Boston.  She  has  lived  in 
Boston  since  her  marriage. 


Sir  Rohan's  Ghost,  a  Romance  (1860) ;  New  England  Legends 
(1871);  The  Thief  in  the  Night  (1872);  Art  Decoration  Ap 
plied  to  Furniture  ( 1878) ;  Azariari,  an  Episode  ( 1881 ) ;  A 
Master  Spirit  (1896)  ;  In  Titian's  Garden  and  Other  Poems 
(1897);  Old  Madame  and  Other  Tragedies  (1900);  The  Chil 
dren  of  the  Valley  (1901)  ;  The  Great  Procession  (1902)  ;  Four 
Days  of  God  (1905);  Old  Washington  (1906)  ;  A  Fairy  Change 
ling  (1910)  ;  The  Making  of  a  Fortune  (1911)  ;  The  King's 
Easter  (1912);  A  Little  Book  of  Friends  (1916);  The  Marquis 
of  Carabas ;  A  Lost  Jewel ;  Hester  Stanley  at  St.  Mark's ;  Hester 
Stanley's  Friends;  The  Scarlet  Poppy;  House  and  Hearth;  The 
Servant  Girl  Question;  Ballads  About  Authors;  The  Amber 
Gods;  A  Master  Spirit;  An  Inheritance;  The  Maid  He  Mar 
ried  ;  Priscilla's  Love  Story. 

STOCKTON,  FRANK  R.  (1834-1902),  was  born  in  Phila 
delphia,  Pennsylvania,  and  educated  there  in  the  public  school 
and  high  school.  He  first  worked  as  a  wood-engraver,  illus 
trating  and  later  writing  children's  stories.  He  contributed  to 
The  Philadelphia  Post,  N.  Y.  Hearth  and  Home,  Scribne^s, 
and  Si.  Nicholas  and  was  on  the  staff  of  the  last  three  at  dif 
ferent  times.  While  doing  editorial  work  he  v/rote  children's 
stories.  "The  Lady  or  the  Tiger?"  was  written  for  a  literary 
society,  and  later  published.  He  and  his  wife  lived  in  New  Jer 
sey  until  he  bought  an  estate  in  West  Virginia. 

Collected  works  in  23  volumes,  published  by  Chas.  Scribner's 
Sons,  N.  Y.:  v.  i,  The  Late  Mrs.  Null  (1886)  ;  v.  2,  The  Squirrel 
Inn.  The  Merry  Chanter  (1890);  v.  3,  Rudder  Grange  (1879); 


BIOGRAPHY  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHY          429 

v.  4,  The  Hundredth  Man  (1887)  ;  v.  5,  Ardis  Claverden  (1890)  ; 
v.  6,  Dusky  Philosophy.  The  Great  War  Syndicate.  The  Knife 
That  Killed  Po  Hanay.  The  Stories  of  the  Three  Burglars 
(1889);  v.  7,  The  House  of  Martha  (1891);  v.  8,  Euphemia 
Among  the  Pelicans.  Pomona's  Daughter.  Pomona's  Travels. 
The  Rudder  Grangers  in  England  (1891)  ;  v.  9,  The  Adventures 
of  Captain  Horn  (1895)  ;  v.  10,  Mrs.  Cliff's  Yacht  (1897)  ;  v. 
11,  The  Great  Storm  of  Sardes.  The  Watch  Devil;  v.  12.  The 
Girl  of  Cobhurst  (1898);  v.  13.  The  Casting  Away  of  Mrs. 
Leeks  and  Mrs.  Aleshim.  The  Vizier  of  the  Two  Horned  Alex 
ander;  v.  14.  The  Associate  Hermits;  v.  15.  The  Baker  of 
Bambury.  A  Borrowed  Month.  Derelict.  The  Discourager  of 
Hesitancy.  Every  Man  His  Own  Letter- Writer.  The  Lady  or 
the  Tiger?  On  the  Training  of  Parents.  Our  Story.  The 
Spectral  Mortgage.  That  Same  Old  Cover.  The  Transformed 
Ghost.  The  Watch-Maker's  Wife;  v.  16.  As  One  Woman  to 
Another.  Asaph.  The  Cloverfield's  Carriage.  My  Bull  Calf. 
My  Terminal  Moraine.  Our  Fire-Screen.  Plain  Fishing.  The 
Remarkable  Wreck  of  the  "Thomas  Hyke."  The  Story  of  As 
sisted  Fate.  A  Tale  of  Negative  Gravity.  An  Unhistoric  Page; 
v.  17.  Amos  Kilbright,  His  Adscititious  Experiences.  The 
Banished  King.  The  Battle  of  the  Third  Cousins.  The  Bee- 
man  of  Orne.  The  Bishop's  Ghost  and  the  Printer's  Baby. 
Christmas  Before  Last.  The  Christmas  Shadrach.  The  Clocks 
of  Rondaine.  The  Griffin  and  the  Minor  Canon.  Old  Pipes 
and  the  Driad.  The  Philopena.  The  Philosophy  of  Relative 
Existences.  Prince  Hassak's  March.  The  Queen's  Museum; 
v.  18.  Captain  Eft's  Best  Ear.  The  Christmas  Wreck.  "His 
Wife's  Deceased  Sister."  Love  Before  Breakfast.  The  Magic 
Egg.  Mr.  Tolmon.  My  Unwilling  Neighbor.  My  Will  and 
What  Came  of  It.  Our  Archery  Club.  A  Piece  of  Red  Calico. 
The  Staying  Power  of  Sir  Rohan.  The  Widow's  Cruise;  v.  19. 
Afield  and  Afloat.  "Come  in  New  Year."  The  Ghosts  in  My 
Tower.  The  Governor  General.  The  Great  Staircase  at  Lan- 
dover  Hall.  The  Landsman's  Tale.  Old  Applejoy's  Ghost. 
The  Romance  of  a  Mule-car.  A  Sailor's  Knot.  The  Skipper 
and  El  Capitan.  Struck  by  a  Boomerang;  v.  21.  John  Gay- 
ther's  Garden ;  v.  22.  The  Captain's  Toil-Gate ;  v.  23.  A  Bicycle 
of  Cathay,  Also  a  Bibliography  and  Biography. 

Stories  of  New  Jersey  (1896)  ;  Buccaneers  and  Pirates  of  Our 
Coasts  (1898). 

STODDARD,  CHARLES  WARREN  (1843-1909),  was  born 
in  Rochester,  N.  Y. ;  educated  in  the  public  schools  there  and 
in  California,  and  at  the  University  of  California.  Ill  health 
prevented  his  graduation  from  the  university.  He  later  received 
the  degrees  of  L.H.D.  from  the  Catholic  University  of  America, 
and  Ph.D.  from  Santa  Clara  College,  California.  For  seven 
years  he  was  travelling  correspondent  of  The  San  Francisco 


430     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

Chronicle.  He  spent  five  years  in  the  South  Seas.  He  was 
professor  of  English  Literature  in  the  University  of  Notre 
Dame,  Indiana,  from  1-885-7.  After  1889  he  held  the  same  chair 
in  the  Catholic  University  of  America. 


Poems  (1867);  South  Sea  Idyls  (1873);  Marshallah,  a  Flight 
Into  Egypt  (1881)  ;  The  Lepers  of  Molokai  (1885)  ;  A  Troubled 
Heart  (1885);  Lazy  Letters  From  Low  Latitudes  (1894);  The 
Wonder  Worker  of  Padua  (1896);  A  Trip  to  Hawaii  (1897); 
A  Cruise  Under  the  Crescent  from  Suez  to  San  Marco  (1898)  ; 
Over  the  Rocky  Mountains  to  Alaska;  In  the  Footprints  of 
the  Padres  (1902);  Exits  and  Entrances,  a  Book  of  Essays 
and  Sketches  (1903)  ;  For  the  Pleasure  of  His  Company  (1903)  ; 
Father  Damien,  a  Sketch  (1903);  The  Island  of  Tranquil  De 
lights  (1904);  Old  Mission  Idyls  (1906);  The  Confessions  of  a 
Reformed  Poet  (1907);  The  Dream  Lady  (1907);  Poems 
(1907). 

TRACY,  VIRGINIA  (1875-  ),  was  born  in  New  York 
City  and  educated  mainly  at  a  private  school  in  Chicago.  She 
is  a  member  of  a  stage  family  and  herself  became  an  actress 
when  she  was  eighteen.  She  played  with  Mrs.  Carter  in  The 
Heart  of  Maryland,  and  with  Robert  Mantell.  She  left  the 
stage  after  ten  years  on  account  of  ill  health  and  wrote  many 
short  stories  dealing  with  stage  life — most  of  them  appearing 
in  Collier's. 

Her  only  published  books  are:  They  Also  Serve  (Short 
Stories)  (1908);  Merely  Players  (Short  Stories)  (1909);  Per 
sons  Unknown  (Detective  Story)  (1914). 

TWAIN,  MARK  (SAMUEL  L.  CLEMENS)  (1835-1910), 
was  born  in  Florida,  Missouri,  whence  he  moved  to  Hannibal, 
where  he  went  to  school.  When  he  was  twelve  years  old  his 
father  died  and  he  went  to  work  as  an  apprentice  in  the  local 
newspaper  office  and  remained  for  three  years.  He  then  came 
east— to  New  York,  Philadelphia,  Cincinnati,  and  back  to  St. 
Louis — still  doing  newspaper  work  in  all  these  places.  He  had 
always  longed  to  become  a  pilot  on  a  Mississippi  River  boat, 
and  he  now  realised  his  ambition.  He  continued  at  this  from 
1857  until  the  Civil  War,  when  he  entered  the  Confederate  army. 
His  next  move  was  to  Nevada,  as  secretary  for  his  brother. 
He  also  worked  as  a  silver  miner,  but  was  unsuccessful  and 
went  back  to  newspaper  work.  Reaching  San  Francisco,  he 
wrote  for  The  Morning  Call,  took  another  turn  at  mining,  and 
then  became  a  lecturer.  In  1867  he  went  to  Europe  with  some 
friends,  and  when  he  returned  he  wrote  Innocents  Abroad,  which 
had  an  immediate  success.  He  married  in  1870.  He  purchased 
The  Buffalo  Express  and  edited  it  for  a  short  time,  before  de- 


BIOGRAPHY  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHY          431 

ciding  to  settle  in  Hartford,  Connecticut,  and  devote  his  time 
to  writing.  His  works  are  translated  into  most  European  lan 
guages.  He  founded  a  publishing  firm  of  his  own,  C.  L.  Webster 
&  Co.,  which  was  a  failure  and  involved  him  in  heavy  losses. 
His  only  child  was  a  daughter  who  survived  him. 

The  Jumping  Frog  (1867)  ;  Innocents  Abroad  (1869)  ;  Auto 
biography  and  First  Romance  (1871)  ;  The  Gilded  Age  (with 
C.  D.  Warner)  (1873)  ;  Roughing  It  (1872)  ;  Sketches,  Old  and 
New  (1873);  Tom  Sawyer  (1876);  Punch  Brother,  Punch 
(1878);  A  Tramp  Abroad  (1880);  The  Prince  and  the  Pauper 
(1880);  The  Stolen  White  Elephant  (1882);  Life  on  the  Mis 
sissippi  (1883);  The  Adventures  of  Huckleberry  Finn  (1885); 
A  Connecticut  Yankee  in  King  Arthur's  Court  ( 1889)  ;  The 
American  Claimant,  etc.  (1892);  Merry  Tales  (1892);  The 
£1,000,000  Bank  Note  (1893)  ;  Pudd'n-head  Wilson  (1894)  i  Tom 
Sawyer  Abroad  (1894)  ;  Joan  of  Arc  (1896)  ;  More  Tramps 
Abroad  (1897);  Following  the  Equator  (1898);  The  Man  That 
Corrupted  Hadleyburg  (1000)  ;  Edmund  Burke  on  Croker  and 
Tammany  (1901)  ;  A  Double-Barrelled  Detective  Story  (1902); 
Articles  on  Christian  Science  (1903);  A  Dog's  Tale  (1903); 
Editorial  Wild  Oats  (1905);  King  Leopold's  Soliloquy  (1905); 
Eve's  Diary  (1905)  ;  A  Horse's  Tale  (1906)  ;  The  $30,000  Be 
quest  (1906)  ;  Christian  Science  (1907)  ;  Extract  from  Captain 
Stormfield's  Visit  to  Heaven  (1909)  ;  Is  Shakespeare  Dead? 
(1909)  ;  The  Curious  Republic  of  Gondour  and  Other  Whimsical 
Sketches  (1919);  In  Defense  of  Harriet  Shelley  and  Other 
Essays;  What  Is  Man,  and  Other  Essays;  The  Mysterious 
Stranger ;  Autobiography. 

WYATT,  EDITH  (FRANKLIN)  (1873-  ),  was  born  in 
Tomah,  Wisconsin,  and  educated  in  the  Chicago  public  schools 
and  at  Bryn  Mawr  College,  which  she  attended  for  two  years. 
She  is  at  present  living  in  Chicago.  Among  the  magazines  to 
which  she  has  contributed  are  The  Atlantic,  McClure's,  and 
The  North  American  Review. 


Every  One  His  Own  Way  (1901)  ;  True  Love  (1903)  ;  Making 
Both  Ends  Meet:  the  Income  and  Outlay  of  New  York  Work 
ing  Girls  (with  S.  A.  Clark)  (1911)  ;  Great  Companions  (Short 
Stories  and  Essays)  (1917)  ;  The  Wind  in  the  Corn  and  Other 
Poems  (1917). 

WHARTON,  EDITH  //S6>-  ;,  was  born  in  New  York 
City,  a  descendant  of  distinguished  Revolutionary  ancestors. 
She  was  educated  at  home.  From  her  youth  she  was  familiar 
with  the  literature  of  France,  Germany,  and  Italy,  and  was 
most  influenced  by  the  writings  of  Goethe.  Among  the  English 
novelists  her  taste  is  for  George  Eliot.  In  1885  she  married 


432     THE  GREAT  MODERN  AMERICAN  STORIES 

Edward  Wharton,  of  Boston.  She  has  spent  much  of  her  life 
in  Italy.  During  the  war  she  was  most  active  in  relief  work  in 
France,  and  has  been  decorated  by  the  French  government  for 
her  services. 

The  Decoration  of  Houses  (1897)  J  The  Greater  Inclination 
(8  Short  Stories)  (1899);  The  Touch  Stone  (1900);  Crucial 
Instances  (1901);  The  Valley  of  Decision  (1902);  Sanctuary 
(1903);  The  Descent  of  Man  and  Other  Stories  (1904);  Ital 
ian  Villas  and  Their  Gardens  ( 1904) ;  Italian  Backgrounds 
(1905);  The  House  of  Mirth  (1905);  Madame  de  Treymes 
(1907);  The  Fruit  of  the  Tree  (1907);  The  Hermit  and  the 
Wild  Woman  and  Other  Stories  (1908)  ;  A  Motor  Flight 
Through  France  (1908);  Artemis  to  Actaeon  and  Other  Verse 
(1909) ;  Summer,  A  Novel  (1909)  ;  The  Reef  (1912)  ;  The  Cus- 
torn  of  the  Country  (1913)  ;  Ethan  Frome  (1914) ;  The  Book  of 
the  Homeless  (1915)  ;  Fighting  France  (1915)  ;  Xinger  and 
Other  Stories  (1916);  Tales  of  Men  and  Ghosts  (1917);  The 
Marne  (1918);  French  Ways  and  Their  Meaning;  The  Joy  of 
Living. 

WYNNE,  MADELENE  YALE  (1847-1913),  was  born  in 
Newport,  New  York.  Besides  her  interest  in  writing  she  de 
voted  much  time  to  artistic  work  in  metals.  She  studied  at 
the  Boston  Art  Museum  and  at  the  Art  Students'  League  in 
New  York.  She  was  president  of  the  Deerfield  (Mass.)  Arts 
and  Crafts  Society.  She  lived  in  Chicago. 

Her  only  published  book  was  The  Little  Room  and  Other 
Stories  (1895). 


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